


Brought To Light

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, M/M, Major Character Injury, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sexual Content, Sibling Incest, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:00:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27797353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: Sherlock is struggling after Sherrinford. He even sees a therapist and it's an eye opener for him. There is a relationship he needs to work on and change, and it's the one with his brother.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 97
Kudos: 116





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SlytherinsDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/gifts).



> I didn't think I would ever finish this fic as I got stuck after 12K words. I did finish it eventually but it didn't go the way it had been supposed to; it just did not work. I hope you'll still enjoy it. Many thanks to my dear SlytherinsDragon for her patience, encouragement and betaing :)

“I really don’t know why I’m here.”

Doctor Lisa Carruthers smiled. “And yet you are, Mr Holmes. Why is that?” She sat back in her chair and crossed her legs.

“Because… _some people_ said I should _‘talk to someone’_.” The quotation marks around the last three words were clearly audible, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

“Why did they suggest that?”

Her new patient sighed. “Because I might have shown some irrational behaviour on some occasions. No need to elaborate any further. But a certain DI and my landlady threatened to respectively ban me from their crime scenes and throw me out of the house if I don’t _‘work on myself’_.” There it was again – this contemptuous tone.

“I see.” This man in his expensive suit, his right hand nervously playing with his phone, wasn’t the first reluctant patient she’d had, not by far. He might be the most intelligent one, though. She knew she had to get to the point very quickly or he would just get even more bored than he already was and leave. “Do you know where your _‘irrational behaviour’_ as you called it comes from?”

He huffed out a laugh. “I’ve been dealing with quite a lot of irrational things lately. It’s no wonder it got me in the end.” He sighed again. “I don’t really know. Nothing has ever been easy for me. Especially not over the past few years since I… Well, you might know the story of my fake suicide.”

Indeed she did. It would have been hard to miss as it had been all over the news, just like the false accusations against the detective two years prior to that. But this all had been some years ago. “Would you like to tell me about the things you had to deal with recently? You know – nothing of it will ever leave this room.”

Another sigh followed. “I wouldn’t even know where to start…”

“Try it. Talking about it might help indeed.”

“Yes, you have to say that of course.” He gave her a haughty but not unfriendly glance.

He was very attractive, this man. It was hard not to be impressed by his charisma _[or his eyes, or his mouth, or his cheekbones… and we won’t talk about his bottom]_ so she didn’t even try it. She was only human after all. But she knew people, and so she was well aware that this man, should he bother with personal human contact at all, was not interested in women. Which made swooning a bit about him a safe option. Secretly, of course. But then he gave her a knowing grin that made her blush, and that hadn’t happened for a long time… He was really as good as people said.

Thankfully, he overlooked her unprofessional reaction and began to speak again. “I… Well. It did start back then. I came back from a mission that required me faking my death. I didn’t do it for the fun, you know? But my best friend resented me for having been left in the dark about my true whereabouts.” He grimaced and she assumed that the man – probably he was talking about his blogger Doctor John Watson – had reacted rather violently.

“He also was engaged to someone and had moved out of our flat.”

Had there been any romantic longings towards the doctor from his side? She recalled to have read some rumours in that regard. Not that she was obsessed with the tabloids. But one wasn’t totally oblivious, either.

He seemed to sense her thoughts and shook his head. “None of that, Doctor. He was just… my friend. Well, when I say _‘just’_ … I don’t have many friends. Anyway. We reconciled and he got married. And then… Well…” He hesitated.

“Mr Holmes, I can’t stress enough that everything you tell me…”

“...will be treated totally confidentially, I know. Otherwise I wouldn’t tell you anything. I still don’t know why I bother… It’s nothing personal, but I never believed in this _‘confess and everything will be fine’_ nonsense.”

“We’re not in a confessional though,” she said, smiling. “I’m not a priest. I won’t give you absolution. I’m just listening, and you would be surprised about how many people find that actually helpful.”

“Well, I’m not _‘many people’_ though. But fine… He got married and his wife killed me.”

“She… Sorry?”

He nodded, his face expressing some satisfaction about her shocked look. “She shot at me. For a reason, I might add. I was dead. The doctors had given me up. But… I fought myself back to life. To protect him from her. Turned out that wasn’t necessary as she was not out for harming him. But I am quite grateful it worked.” His handsome features darkened, and she knew that for a moment, he had wondered if that was really true, and it touched her deeply.

This man really got to her, and he wasn’t even trying… She might have to talk to her own therapist about that…

“Well, to cut a long story short, his wife, Mary, got killed just months after giving birth to their baby, and it was my fault.”

God… What a horror story was this? She believed every word; it was clear that he was absolutely sincere. But after going through such trouble, it was no wonder that he was not feeling very cheerful…

“He blamed me – John. Naturally. I mean, I did not pull the trigger and it was her decision to catch a bullet that was meant for me, but if I had just shut up for once…” He rubbed his face with both hands. “He had his revenge and then he saved my life. And we’re good again, I think. We never really… talked about all this stuff but there was a hug. A totally platonic one,” he added with a stern glance. “He doesn’t come to crime scenes very often anymore, but that’s just natural, too. He has a job and a child and… Well, he did accompany me to confronting my sister, who had been locked away in a secret institution.” He raised his head and stared at her, and it felt as if he was staring right into her brain.

“And what then?” she whispered, completely shocked by his revelations, stated in a casual tone with just a hint of the underlying pain he had to be feeling.

“Then… people died. That happens quite often when I’m around. Turned out little sister played a game just to get my attention. And my… affection. I think… she might have… manipulated me as well, just as she manipulates everybody. I… made some effort to get through to her but I failed. Again.”

A myriad of thoughts was whirling through her mind. “What kind of game did she play?” she asked then, assuming that this might be the key to his emotional state.

“Oh, nothing special. I had to solve some puzzles. Someone shot himself in the head next to me. Three people were killed in front of the window. I had to tell a woman that I loved her even though I don’t. I do owe her quite a lot but that’s not love, and she should have known that but for whatever reason, she thought I’d meant it. Now she doesn’t say more than two words when I’m around her. But the icing on the cake was the game during which I had to either kill my friend or my brother. She called it ‘make-your-mind-up time.’”

“And you did what?” It was getting worse and worse… The poor man...

He smiled but the smile was the saddest one she had ever seen. “I chose neither. I threatened to kill myself, counting down from ten so she could save me if she was so inclined. She did and we all got out of there alive.” He rubbed his nose. “It’s all fine, actually. I don’t… I have no idea why I’m feeling so… finished.”

Her heart clenched at his suddenly hopeless tone. She knew she would need a long time to process what he had just told her. And it would probably take a lifetime to do this after actually experiencing it.

But they had not gotten to the core of his depression and discomfort yet. Not in the least, his last statement had made that very clear. It was probably hidden somewhere in the events he had so casually outlined. Of course – this man had every reason to feel depressed after all the horrors he’d had to go through. She did sense that there was a particular trigger for his state though. But they wouldn’t get there like this. He seemed so tired and she knew he would not want to elaborate these events any further. And if a man who was so smart and self-reflective had not figured it out yet, they wouldn’t succeed by simply speaking about his recent past. She needed another kind of approach.

“I think we should try something out, Mr Holmes.”

“Call me Sherlock, please.”

“Fine. Sherlock. I will try a relaxation technique with you and then give you some cues and you tell me the first thing you are thinking of.”

He grimaced. “I don’t think that will work but why not. Better than telling arduous stories you’ll only get nightmares from…”

Perhaps she really would… “So, try to imagine -…”

“Let’s cut this short. I will just open a new, blank space in my mind palace and retreat into it.”

“Um. Okay.” She wasn’t very familiar with this concept but if he was so sure that it worked, it probably would. She watched him close his eyes and after only a few seconds, his features did indeed relax. Wow… That was helpful… “Okay, ready?”

“Just shoot,” he said, dryly. His voice sounded as if he was indeed far in his own head though. His eyes were dazed. He was in some kind of trance, and whatever he told her now would be genuine. And he would remember it.

*****

Sherlock almost crashed into an overweight man when he stumbled out of the house. He only vaguely registered the man’s offended muttering, and he barely noticed the cab that stopped next to him when he raised his arm as if on autopilot.

His mind was elsewhere.

“ _Pain.” - “Loss.”_

“ _Safety.” - “Mycroft.”_

“ _Sunlight.” - “Umbrella.”_

“ _Failure.” - “Mycroft.”_

“ _Regret.” - “Mycroft.”_

“ _Family.” - “Brother.”_

“ _Love.” - “Mycroft.”_

“ _Longing.” - “Mycroft.”_

At this point, he had snapped back into reality, had jumped up, taken his coat and put a hundred-pound note onto the table, stammering an excuse.

She had wanted to hold him back but he had left in a rush.

He buried his face in his hands now that he was sitting on the back seat of the cab.

Yes… Her little experiment had been very successful. It had shown him that he had done it again. He had gone through an emotionally disturbing situation and suppressed it afterwards – but it had still been eating at his soul ever since it had happened. In Sherrinford...

The looks. Oh God, those looks… Everything else had ceased to exist at this moment. John, Eurus, the ordeal they had been going through…Nothing had mattered. Only he and Mycroft. Their eyes had been boring into each other. And a door inside him, a door that had been locked all his life, had opened up like the coffin lid of a vampire – and the vampire was called _‘love’_. Make that _‘forbidden love’…_

He was breathing hard now, and he wondered if this was some kind of panic attack. He heard the driver ask him if he was okay and he rasped out a _‘yes’_.

When he was racing up the stairs to 221B, he was sweating profusely. He hurled himself in his chair – which had miraculously survived the explosion of the patience grenade – still wearing his coat, his body shivering.

Only slowly he calmed down. Smelled the freshly painted walls. Listened into the silence of the flat, the new windows shutting out the noise of the traffic almost completely.

The realisation hit him hard – yes, he had felt all this. And it was forbidden and absolutely disturbing – but he had seen the same feelings on his brother’s face.

How had Mycroft been feeling after waking up in Eurus’ cell? Had he seen Sherlock fall? Had he seen the gun slipping from his hand or had he gone unconscious not knowing if Sherlock had pulled the trigger?

He had not bothered talking to him afterwards. Instead he had sent Lestrade to make sure his brother was looked after. And now he did know why. He had felt shocked by his feelings, which had already been sent into the depths of his… heart? Soul? Mind? All of it, probably. But their echo had still lingered inside his brain, and so he had avoided meeting Mycroft. He had been his cool self when they had met with their parents two days later. There had only been a slight stirring when he had greeted his brother – Mummy and Father had already been there.

And God – Mycroft had looked so hurt. Stupidly, he had assumed it had been because of the parents. And of course their nasty behaviour towards his brother had not brightened up his mood but was there really a question what the real reason had been? Since when had Mycroft bothered about their opinion? Oh, he liked to play the good son, never forgetting Mummy’s birthday and sending flowers and all that nonsense. But he avoided them as much as he could as well as Sherlock did, just a bit more diplomatically as it was his habit. And suddenly he should have been hurt just because Mummy had called Sherlock – totally stupidly – the one who had always been the _‘grown-up’_? She had just said that to get back at Mycroft and everybody had known it. No. It would be very convenient to blame the hurt in his brother’s eyes on this ghastly conversation. But now Sherlock was sure that had been because he had been avoiding Mycroft after Sherrinford. Mycroft had hardly looked at him when they had met in the prison so the parents could hear him play the violin with Eurus.

That seemed to have been ages ago. He had gone there five more times before he had realised that it made no sense. There was no connection with her beyond eliciting a light smile from her, and he had brutally decided that this was not worth his time. He had put that in kinder words with the psychologist, and yes, he had failed, but that was hardly his fault. Eurus was beyond any help.

But Mycroft… Mycroft had not deserved being let down. Again. And how had this been for him after they had exchanged these _looks_? After all their shields had melted away in this brief moment? Time had seemed to stop, long enough to turn Sherlock's world on its axis. And just like it was _his_ habit, he had pushed his feelings aside.

Feelings that must have been there before. Deeply hidden in him. And Sherlock would have bet that it had been the same for Mycroft. Only that Mycroft had not managed to forget about it so soon again. Sherlock had always been better at that after all…

Mycroft, the Iceman. Antarctica. He so was not.

Sherlock straightened up. He had deleted Eurus and turned Victor into a dog in his memory. He was not going to delete these feelings that a sympathetic psychologist had brought to light with a very simple method again.

He didn't know what he wanted. A relationship? With _Mycroft?_ Holding hands? Having… sex?

He really couldn’t say. This was so far beyond his range of experience that it felt like getting shot to the moon. And what would Mycroft want? Getting down and dirty with him? _Mycroft?_ He couldn’t even imagine his brother without a suit anymore. When had he seen him out of one the last time? Apart from the moment when he had turned into a bearded fisherman to get into Sherrinford? And then Sherlock remembered the glance he had taken at his brother when he had changed clothes. God… A glimpse at long legs… Pale flesh…

Before he could start hyperventilating again, he got up to pour himself a drink.

While the brandy was burning in his throat, he realised that he had to do this now. Before he could change his mind. Because if he thought this through any further, he would lose all courage to act on it. Perhaps that would be better for both of them though.

But perhaps… it was time to be brave. To try to get something he had always thought to be out of his reach… Romantic love. Hadn’t John encouraged him to find it? To _‘complete him as a human being’_? Well, he had been talking about Irene of course, which showed how little John knew him in this regard… He had been fascinated by her, yes. But not in a sexual way, even though everybody had assumed it. He smiled grimly when he imagined John finding out for whom he really had the hots. Ghastly expression. Nobody may ever know about it. But of course he was being presumptuous.

He looked at his watch. Seven pm. Mycroft should be at home by now. And if not – he had a key.

It was now or never.

This would either be the worst embarrassment of his life – or the chance for something really mind-blowing.

He could only hope for the second possibility.


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft had clearly seen him on the monitor – his face was a mask of indifference when he opened up, still wearing the suit of the day. He had only come home about five minutes ago, Sherlock deduced. No time to change clothes. Eat. Relax – if his brother ever did that.

The calm expression was betrayed by a flicker of caution and suspicion in his eyes that everybody but Sherlock would have missed.

“Sherlock. That’s a surprise.”

“Good evening, Mycroft. Am I interrupting?”

“Not at all. Is there anything wrong?”

“No.” Sherlock shuffled with his feet, feeling like a fifteen-year-old who was about to ask an admired but intimidating person out for a date. He wondered if Mycroft knew where he had been spending a part of his late afternoon. Well, of course he did. “May I come in for a moment?”

“Of course.” Mycroft stepped back but Sherlock had the strong feeling that he would have rather closed the door in his face.

Not that he would ever do such a thing. Not with him. He followed his brother inside and slipped out of his coat. And suddenly he recalled how he had entered this house the last time… His cheeks flushed with regret. He had been such a dick… Why had he not just asked Mycroft about Eurus? Fine, perhaps he would have refused telling him anything. But Sherlock had not even given him the chance. He had pulled off this cruel charade, encouraged by John.

He had not deserved Mycroft's brave move in Sherrinford. Did not deserve his affection or his loyalty. Let alone his love. He should leave and… He shook his head. No. He was not going to do that. That would just be cowardly. And Sherlock Holmes was a lot but he was _not_ a coward.

“I’m sorry,” he said. They had reached the living room without talking, and Mycroft had just gestured at the whiskey carafe on the table.

Mycroft furrowed his brow. “I don’t und-… Oh, I see. That’s what this psychologist told you.”

“I’m surprised you don’t even try to hide that you’re still spying on me,” came out of Sherlock's mouth before he could even think about it. No, no, that was all wrong… “Sorry,” he said again, and Mycroft shook his head.

“Wow. That’s a lot of ‘sorries’ from you. Didn’t even think you knew the word.”

Sherlock closed his eyes in frustration and hopelessness. What was he trying to achieve here? Seducing Mycroft? Confessing his love for him? Well, that had worked out well. They were sailing on the ship of ever-lasting resentments like they had always done… He really should leave and -… No. He would not give up so easily. He had never done that, either. “Okay. Give me a drink. Please.”

“Please? Another first time. I’m impressed.”

And suddenly Sherlock understood that Mycroft was just hiding behind this wall of exasperation and mockery. He was anxious. He’d had no idea why Sherlock had come for at first and then he had jumped to the wrong conclusion that Sherlock had been told by Doctor Carruthers that he should make up for his previous failures towards the people who were his ‘nearest and dearest’, very generously spoken, or perhaps just towards him. Of course Sherlock would have been busy for weeks if he’d had to apologise for every failure he had produced… It wasn’t a difficult deduction to get that Mycroft feared that he would not only apologise though. He thought that Sherlock now finally wanted to talk about Redbeard and all this crap – reappraise their past. And that he would end up accusing him for _his_ failures.

Damn… Their relationship had always been a mess, at least ever since Sherlock had been old enough to get himself into serious trouble. And ever since Mycroft had left home to live a life of his own. Without the parents. Without Sherlock. And now he was here to start a romantic relationship with big brother? Perhaps Eurus wasn’t the crazy one in the family…

He downed the drink Mycroft had handed him. Very expensive stuff, no doubt, but he hardly tasted it. He was at a total loss of what he should say.

“Come. Let’s sit down,” Mycroft offered now, sounding resigned.

Sherlock slumped on the soft couch, feeling wired and tired at the same time. He was provided with more whiskey but he didn’t touch it as the last one had gone to his head already. He had taken all the drugs under the sun but alcohol always got him quickly, and he needed a sober mind now.

Mycroft sat down in his armchair on the other side of the table, crossing his legs.

“I’m not here to say sorry,” Sherlock brought out after the silence had stretched for too long. “I mean. I did. Because I am. Sorry.” God. The _PM_ sounded smarter when he was giving a speech…

“It’s alright. I’ve never resented you for anything.”

That had to be a joke. But then Sherlock realised that, in fact, _he_ had been the really resentful one. Mycroft had mostly just endured his nastiness. His weight jokes. His refusal to take his cases. And he still had always had Sherlock's back. Apart from the decision to let Sherlock die in Eastern Europe after he had shot Magnussen.

No. Mycroft wouldn’t have done that. He had been angry to say the least. More – he had been _terrified_. He must have thought that Sherlock wasn’t better than Eurus… Which was stupid. Sherlock had not killed because he liked it. He had done it for John and Mary. But he had not shown or felt any remorse, either… Would Mycroft have gotten him out if the video of Jim hadn’t appeared so conveniently?

And then he was hit by a realisation so hard that he had to hold on to the couch. Of course… _Mycroft_ had launched the video. He was the only one with enough power and knowledge to do it and the intelligence to not let anyone know about it. He had known that as soon as Sherlock was away, he could never be there fast enough to save him.

“My God…” he croaked. “You are… a _genius_!”

Mycroft looked at him with narrowed eyes at the unexpected compliment. “Sorry what?”

“The video. _‘Did you miss me?’_ That was you!”

“Ah. Well.” Mycroft shifted on his chair. “Got me. I wanted to teach you a lesson, Sherlock. I didn't want to _kill_ you…”

Sherlock felt rather dizzy now. “You fooled us all…”

“Well, perhaps Eurus is indeed smarter than me. But I still am -…”

“...the smart one of the two of us and smarter than any goldfish, yes. Fuck, Mycroft.” Now he did grab for the glass.

Mycroft grimaced just a bit at the language. “Well. I can assure you that I don’t desire your apologies, Sherlock. I -…”

“But you desire _me_.” Sherlock couldn’t believe that he had just said this. Had this woman put a _‘burst out with everything you think’_ spell on him while he had been in trance?

A lesser man than Mycroft would have paled now. Or he would have thrown Sherlock out of his house. Hit him, perhaps.

Mycroft did none of that. He looked at him calmly – but fiercely. Sherlock knew that look. It was the look of deduction. Then he tilted his head ever so slightly. “I knew you had noticed it in Sherrinford. And… I thought I had seen it on your face, too.”

“You did. And then I shut you out again. It wasn’t a conscious decision.”

“I see. But perhaps your unconscious is right to protect you from truths you shouldn’t be dealing with. It’s a defence mechanism.”

Sherlock nodded. “That was certainly true when it came to Eurus and Redbeard. I was small and there was nothing I could have done but suffer. But I don’t need to be protected from _you_. I told you before – I’m not a child anymore.” And suppressing his feelings had just made him sad and depressed and sometimes it had made him explode in frustration, especially during the previous weeks. Sally Donovan had just so escaped a fiercely thrown brick – the moment in which Lestrade had had enough...

Mycroft stared at him for a moment, and then he got up and poured himself another drink. He raised the bottle with a questioning look but Sherlock shook his head. He had barely touched his second one. He wanted a sober mind now.

Mycroft came back, sipping at the whiskey. “So what now, Sherlock?” he asked after sitting down again. “You are seriously suggesting -…”

“God, Mycroft, how can you be so… bloody calm and analytic about this? We are not discussing a case.”

“Apologies. I… I just don’t know what to say. What you saw – it was me bare of all my… let’s call it layers of ice. I thought I had to die. There was no reason to hide anymore.”

“You really thought I would shoot you? You _are_ slipping.” Sherlock hated himself for this nagging, contemptuous tone but he was hurt. Of course he had known that Mycroft had not looked through his charade, none of them had done it. But to hear that his brother had seriously believed that he would cold-bloodedly shoot him was still like a punch to the gut.

To his surprise, Mycroft smiled after wincing at his outburst. “Yes. I was slipping sincerely. But I had no reason to believe that you would spare my life and offer to sacrifice yourself.”

It didn’t get any better. Because of course he was right. Sherlock had kept treating him like shit for decades. His stunt with Wiggins’ people had only been the last blow he had delivered at Mycroft. Twisting his arm? Drugging him and stealing his laptop to betray the country? Throwing obscenities at him whenever he had been high and Mycroft had come to pull him out of drug dens, over years?

Suddenly, Sherlock was feeling very, very exhausted. Boneless. Hopeless. “No. You had no reason at all. I can’t believe you still… harboured feelings for me at this point.” And of course Mycroft had loved him in a completely theoretical way. His brother had never wanted to speak it out, let alone act on it.

He had fucked up. Again.

He got up. “I’ll better leave you alone now.”

Mycroft stood up as well. He made a step to the side to block Sherlock's way, and gently grabbed his arm. “That’s not what I want,” he said very quietly. “I do… want what you want. I just don’t know… how and… Hell, Sherlock. You realise how forbidden such a relationship would be? What if any of your friends find out? You think they would pat you on the back and congratulate you on your marvellous choice?”

The dark humour of this last question made Sherlock smile involuntarily, and Mycroft gave him a look of surprise before he smiled back. The atmosphere between them shifted once more.

“I am well aware that nobody should know about it, believe me,” Sherlock said, equally quietly. “Who should? John won’t move back to Baker Street and we only meet for cases if at all. Mrs Hudson has a new admirer and is hardly in Baker Street these days.” And she had more or less forced him to seek help because he had been wrecking her last nerve when they had met – being either completely gloomy or totally wired and probably unbearable… He might have even thrown a cup at her – throwing stuff at people had been a thing lately... Certainly another reason why she had hardly been at home lately. “Molly doesn’t know me anymore.” Of course she had thought he had meant those godforsaken three words even though she had forced him to say them. He had not been able to hide his annoyance about her thickness. “And I’m not in the habit of going to the pub with Lestrade and gossiping about my personal life. And I doubt that this will change anytime soon as he’s lately found my attitude as obnoxious as during the old days.” Probably more…

He really didn’t have many friends anymore if he thought about it. But that wasn’t the reason for him to pursue a relationship with Mycroft. He had never been afraid of being alone. “Nobody will find out.” He sighed. “I know it’s illegal and dangerous. And you might be aware that this is not easy for me, either. It’s nothing I had ever considered before. I just wish… you would… be less Icemannish about this.”

“Oh Sherlock. You know me.”

“Yeah. Sentiment is ghastly and to be avoided at all costs. Caring is not an advan-…” And then he was shut up with a kiss and his brain stopped working at the contact with Mycroft's soft lips, tasting like whiskey and tea and something that was uniquely him.

He tumbled and Mycroft held him by the shoulders, and the kiss was over as quickly as it had begun. Sherlock gaped at his brother and licked his lips. “That was… a good start.”

Mycroft smiled, and it made him look ten years younger. But he turned serious again in an instant. “I’m not sure that this is a good idea.”

There was not much doubt about what he meant. If this went wrong, it would probably destroy their brotherly relationship on the go. It _could_ come out, no matter how careful they were. If this knowledge fell into the wrong hands… Sherlock didn’t even want to imagine. Mycroft would be risking so much more than him. They were both completely inexperienced at this relationship bollocks. Sherlock had only theoretical knowledge about the sexual side. An impatient wank when he could not ignore the basic needs of the transport any longer was as far as he had ever gone in terms of his sexuality... He had always known that he preferred men but he had never planned to act on desires he had never really felt.

But dammit – he craved it now. He had no idea when this had happened or how or why… He had never seen himself getting involved this way with anybody. But really… if it had to be someone… “I do think it is,” he said, firmly. “A good idea. You get me like nobody else does. You understand my brain like nobody else does, but also my… weird little heart.” He was glad to see Mycroft smile at that. “You have always been indulgent with me. In your own, particular, pissed-off way.” That made Mycroft laugh, and that was even better. “You loved me when I was ghastly to you. Don’t you want to give it a try when I’m very nice to you?” he concluded, cheekily.

Mycroft looked at him for what felt like ages. Then he loosely curled his arms around Sherlock's waist. “If you put it like that. Let’s see how nice we can be with each other, hm?”

This time it was Sherlock's turn to initiate the kiss, and neither of them broke it until they were both breathless. Sherlock stored every second of it away in a brand new room of his mind palace. How Mycroft tasted _[whiskey, tea, a faint hint of a roast beef sandwich]_. The texture of his lips and tongue _[warm, damp, soft]_. How his teeth felt when he let his tongue glide over them _[sharp, hard]_. How his arms were holding him firmer _[strong, safe]_. The smell of his cheek _[warm, clean skin, a bit of a stubble. A faint hint of eau de cologne – James Bond, what else]_. The warmth and hardness of his body, pressed against Sherlock’s _[He’s hard, God. And he’s big. Well, so am I.]._ And how huge his pupils were when they finally let each other go.

“That was… good,” Sherlock said when he had regained his ability to speak. His cock was throbbing in his trousers.

“I can’t deny that. But Sherlock… If you feel that you don’t want to go on, please -…”

Always the overprotective older sibling… “Won’t happen. But in case it does, I’ll let you know. But please – give this a serious chance. Don’t waste your time with feeling guilty or as if you had coerced me in any way just because you’re my big brother. Have I ever done anything I didn’t want?”

Mycroft smiled, and Sherlock thought he could definitely get used to being smiled at by him like this. “No, you haven’t. And I will. Give it a chance. I will try to not feel guilty.”

“It’s all I can ask for.”

“I think you should leave now before we -… Ah. Don’t pout. I’m not going to rush anything. We won’t do more tonight. Let’s take this easy. Step for step. I need it, and so do you.”

“You telling me what I need,” mumbled Sherlock. “That has never gone down well…”

“No, it hasn’t. But if this is going to work, we need to find new patterns for dealing with each other. And believe me – that won’t be easy at all.”

“Do tell… It’s not as if I hadn’t fallen back into bad habits five minutes ago… But yes. Yes. We will work on it. And I will be patient if I must.”

“You do,” smirked Mycroft. “Come back tomorrow, hm? Text me before in case I’ll get hold up. Our lines are safe as you know.”

“Fine. Don’t change your mind!”

Mycroft shook his head and pecked him on the lips but pulled back before Sherlock could start plundering his mouth again. “God help me, but I won’t.”

“God doesn’t have a say in this, Mycroft. He wasn’t asked. And he doesn’t even exist…”

Mycroft shook his head, grinning, and then he accompanied Sherlock to the door, his arm around Sherlock's shoulder, Sherlock's arm wrapped around his waist.

It felt very good to have an armful of big brother. “Our lines are secure – does that mean I can text you naughty stuff?”

“Oh dear,” said Mycroft. “What have I done?”

“You’ve opened up Pandora’s box,” joked Sherlock.

“And what is inside of it?” Mycroft played along with more humour in his clear blue _[gorgeous]_ eyes than Sherlock had ever seen in them.

“Lots of talking, holding hands… and sex.” From where was he taking the courage to talk like this all at once? It just felt so… natural.

Yes… _‘Safe.’ - ‘Mycroft.’_ Enough said.

Mycroft was regarding him in wonder. “I would have never believed this in a million years…”

“Ask _me,_ brother. Ask me.”

After one more kiss that left them both dizzy and dazed and even harder than before, Sherlock reluctantly left. He would send flowers to Doctor Carruthers… She deserved it. He had needed a middle-aged goldfish of a therapist to point him in the right way and he knew that it was, indeed, right.


	3. Chapter 3

“Hello, brother mine. Do come in and give me your coat. What’s that?” Mycroft looked at the plastic bag in Sherlock's hand. “I did tell you that I’d take care of dinner, didn’t I?”

“Ah. Your deduction skills are lacking, as always,” Sherlock teased him. “It’s our dessert. Cake.” He put the bag onto the table next to the door to take off his Belstaff.

The smile that played around Mycroft's lips at that made his heart do a ridiculous little flip. “Ah. I see. Working on our gridlocked behavioural patterns, are we?”

“I’m pretty sure we’ve made quite the progress on that already,” smirked Sherlock and stepped into his brother’s personal space. He wasn’t just talking about the kisses they had shared on the previous evening. They had been texting each other quite excessively during the day. It had not been any lovey-dovey talk. They had hardly reached that stage yet. But it had been some nice back and forth on the events of their respective days. Some more or less interesting cases for Sherlock – on one of them, John had joined him for a change – plenty of meetings about all kinds of national and international matters for Mycroft. It had felt pretty nice to suddenly feel entitled and inclined to tell his brother that Donovan looked at him as if she would bite him any moment, or read how Mycroft mocked the vice president of the US. It had been some casual conversation but it meant a lot. And he would have lied if he had denied that he had been thinking about Mycroft and the prospects of getting to know him in a very different way basically all day and large parts of the night. There had been some vivid fantasies and some fear of his own bravery to pursue this. He was so far out of his depth – but still he knew that he would always be safe with Mycroft.

Now he put his hands onto his brother’s shoulder and gave him an expectant look.

Mycroft smiled. “What now, little brother? Shall I tell you how stunning your eyes are?”

“They are,” smirked Sherlock, a shudder running through his body when Mycroft put his right hand on his back, directly over his spine. The left one slid up and down his side, and it felt divine.

“Without a doubt. And your lips. Quite remarkable.”

“You do know how to make compliments, brother,” Sherlock said dryly. “Shall I tell you how cute the dimple in your chin is?”

Mycroft gave him a stern look. “Walking on thin ice, brother dear.”

“Oh. You know I like to hurl myself into danger.” Not good… Mycroft knew it all too well, and he had hardly ever approved of it.

The taller man gave him an indulgent look. “I do that, pretty boy.”

Sherlock grimaced. “That sounds as if I was some sort of kept man.”

“Oh. I thought you were?”

God… Had Mycroft always sounded so sexy? That twinkle in his eyes… He had been home earlier obviously – time to shower and shave and change into plain black trousers and a simple grey shirt. No tie. Nothing of the usual armour. It said a lot. And damn – the dark chest hair, poking out of his collar… It was sexy. Very sexy. Sherlock swallowed at the thought of being allowed to touch and kiss this furry chest…

Mycroft chuckled, sounding a tad stunned. “Naughty thoughts, little brother?”

It was strange how they kept referring to each other as brothers. Shouldn’t they avoid that touchy subject instead? But it was what linked them together after all. So far, they were still rather brothers than… lovers? But that would change. Soon, if Sherlock had any say in this… “Maybe?” he played coy. “Will we stand here like this all evening or are we finally going to k-…”

His last word was cut off with the action he had been asking for, and he got all pliant in his brother’s now decidedly firmer grip while their tongues were dancing the dance of exploration and the reassurance that what was developing between them was going to get awesome.

Mycroft chuckled when Sherlock’s lips finally moved away from his mouth and wandered to his jaw, then his ear, and southwards down his neck. “Oh, Sherlock. Taking it slow, remember? I won’t have you ravishing me in the hallway.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but let his thumb tease the bit of black hair above the shirt collar. It felt wiry against his skin. “I’d prefer ravishing you in your bed anyway.”

“Blunt! And I’m not that easy to get.”

“Don’t I know it. Feed me now, brother, I’m starving.”

“You want to eat? Wonders never cease.”

They really didn’t, and Sherlock couldn’t wait to seriously explore the wondrous ways of their new-found relationship. He felt impatient but also anxious about it, and he guessed that in the end, getting to the real treats would be even sweeter by having had to wait for them. And he knew he wasn’t ready for them, as much as he craved them.

It was hateful that Mycroft was always right.

They walked to the living room, and Sherlock sneaked his hand into Mycroft's, and his brother looked down at their linked fingers with an expression that could only be called ‘cute’, but Sherlock wisely refrained from saying so.

*****

Sherlock blushed when he caught Mycroft’s amused glance. “What?” he asked, defensively.

“Nothing. You like my hands?”

He couldn’t deny that, and he had been staring at them rather than focusing on his own meal – spicy curry that Mycroft had fetched on his way home. He had never noticed how elegant Mycroft's slim, almost feminine but large hands were. Such long fingers, holding the cutlery in a way that could only be described as sophisticated. It had felt very pleasant to hold Mycroft’s hand – even though the urge to do so had caught Sherlock off guard as a lot of things had done lately. It didn’t take much of an imagination to picture these fingers doing something else…

Of course Mycroft deduced his thoughts with ease. “Hm. I do imagine it too, Sherlock. You have quite a lot of treats to offer…”

This was very nice to hear of course, and also an invitation to turn the tables, and Sherlock took it gladly. “Do tell. And which of my _treats_ do you… fancy the most?”

Mycroft was too cool to blush or show any kind of embarrassment. “Fishing for compliments, dear brother? I would have thought that’s beneath you.” He took a fork full of fish.

“I’d rather have _you_ beneath me,” deadpanned Sherlock, and he saw Mycroft actually choke on his piece of fish with somewhat gleeful satisfaction. _See… I_ can _get you after all, brother dear…_ “Shall I pat you on the back?” he offered.

Mycroft coughed as delicately as he could, which was quite delicate, and used his tissue to wipe off his mouth. “No, thank you,” he said in a rather raspy voice. “Nice counter.”

“Much obliged,” Sherlock smirked. “So?”

“Just look into the mirror, brother mine. They are all there…”

Sherlock couldn’t help but feel very flattered. He had never really found himself that attractive. Yes, he was tall and fit and all, but his eyes, whose ever-changing colour was quite fascinating to people as he had noticed, were weirdly shaped and his cheekbones were dominating his face a bit too much. He was far from being classically handsome but yeah, probably not too ugly either. “Would I need a full length mirror?” he asked casually, being well aware that he was actually sitting on one of his ‘treats’.

Mycroft tilted his head. “You do surprise me. I wouldn’t have thought you’re so good at playing such games.”

Sherlock was surprising himself with that actually. He was… teasing. Flirty… With _Mycroft_ … And he couldn’t deny that there had been an edge to this teasing – not out of malevolence but resulting from the fact that this was indeed all new and exciting but also kind of frightening. Another defence mechanism, obviously. “I’m not playing games with you, brother,” he made clear, holding Mycroft's gaze. “And I sincerely hope you do find me attractive because this attraction is entirely mutual, and I really want to act on it. At your pace, obviously.” And being nervous about the prospect of getting seriously tactile with big brother or not – the experimenter in him did long for some action and wouldn’t be held in check forever.

Mycroft looked at him in wonder once more. “You never cease to amaze me indeed. So… That means you do find my backside as appealing as I find yours?”

Sherlock knocked his glass with white wine over, and Mycroft gave him a sardonic little smile, and so they were even.

*****

Sherlock slipped out of his coat and hung it up before he walked through his silent flat. He only heard the faint noise of Mrs Hudson’s telly. He had sneaked up the stairs so she wouldn’t hear him as he really did not want to chat with her tonight. She was observant, this old, experienced woman, and she might have seen what she wasn’t prone to see. But then, of course she wasn’t that keen on his presence anymore… ‘A pain in the arse’, she had called him more than once before this therapy session… Rightly so, obviously.

He unconsciously licked his slightly swollen lips. They still tasted like _him_. And cake, yes. They had shared it, sitting on Mycroft's couch, their thighs flushed against each other – a teasing, promising touch that had left him aching hard in his trousers. It did feel like a kind of game they were playing with each other, probably called _‘let’s see who will be pushed over the edge first and rip the other one’s clothes off’_ , he thought with a grin. Sweet torture, that’s what it was.

He fell into his chair. His flat had always felt like a safe haven. Now it felt rather lonely though. He grimaced. He wasn’t missing Mycroft already, was he? Yes. He was…

They had done nothing more than holding hands of all things when they had been finished devouring the cake. Sherlock could still feel his brother’s digits rubbing against his own. Warm, nice, lovely hands. And of course they had snogged some more.

Almost by themselves, his fingers unzipped his trousers. His cock jumped out of its confinements and he grabbed it and closed his eyes, imagining having Mycroft's hand rubbing up and down on it. It was Mycroft's thumb that was wiping over the slit, smearing that single drop of pre-come over the shiny head.

He knew that Mycroft had quite a few reasons to deny him this gratification for now. It wasn’t about playing hard to get. Not just because Sherlock was so inexperienced. Or so volatile… Mycroft wanted to mainly protect Sherlock from himself. He didn’t want him to hurl himself into an intimate relationship just to regret it afterwards and suppress this experience, too… And of course he did fear the damage it would do to their brotherly relationship if being lovers didn’t turn out to be what Sherlock really wanted. Mycroft wanted him to be sure. And, very understandably, he didn’t want his own heart to be broken. All good reasons and still frustrating… Because Sherlock knew he wouldn’t change his mind. He wouldn’t go anywhere. Apart from Mycroft's bed. The couch would do, too. And there was nothing wrong with shower cubicles.

Damn… They had not even had even a hint of sex and Sherlock was already obsessed with it. Well, he had always been the addictive type, forget about that _‘I’m a user, not an addict’_ bullshit. And that Mycroft let him wait for more than holding hands and snogging each other senseless only fuelled his obsession. Well, people always craved for what they couldn’t have, and that Sherlock could be rather sure that he would get it in the end made him only more impatient. Damn… Perhaps Mycroft wanted to teach him another lesson after all… But then – he denied himself the gratification, too, after all.

What kind of sex drive did his brother have? Sherlock didn’t like the image of Mycroft being with anyone else but he knew his brother had made some experiences. Long ago, probably. How was he feeling now? Was he horny, too? he wondered while he was increasing his strokes, glancing at his blood-filled boner, poking out of his flies rather obscenely. It was thick and long but from what Sherlock had seen so far, Mycroft surpassed him in this regard as well. The thought of Mycroft doing the same right now with his even bigger cock made him get even harder, and it took an embarrassingly short amount of time until he spurted his load all over his clothed chest. Well, he had a washing machine…

He winced when his phone chirped, and he gasped when he saw the text.

_Did you enjoy yourself, little brother? MH_

Damn! Sherlock knew very well that there were no bugs or cameras in the flat and his phone was bug-free, too – he had checked everything, several times, and his flat had just been renovated after all, including receiving a new wall. So Mycroft had not watched him (and bloody hell, he wouldn’t have even minded; it would have been an extra turn-on actually) but had deduced what he would be up to. He was good! Even better than Sherlock with his predictions about John’s choice of a therapist (it would have been even better if he had deduced that said therapist was his own murderous, patience-grenade-providing sister… But he had lacked data!).

_I’m impressed, brother mine. SH_

he texted back.

_And I did… I blame it all on you. SH_

_I’m delighted to take the blame. Sleep well. MH_

_Did you do it too? SH_

_You can’t deduce that? MH_

_No! SH_

_What a pity. I will keep you guessing. MH_

_Bugger! SH_

_The worst. MH_

_I miss you. SH_

_That is very nice. So do I. MH_

_See you tomorrow. SH_

_Of course. MH_

Sherlock still had that silly grin on his face when he hurried to the bathroom.


	4. Chapter 4

“You didn’t have to come.” Sherlock regretted this statement at once when he saw the flicker of hurt in his brother’s eyes. “I mean – I know you have more important things to do than looking after me in the middle of the day.” It didn’t sound that much better but Mycroft's expression softened.

“You mean after you, my little brother who just doesn’t stop throwing himself into any danger he can find?” Mycroft sat down in John’s new armchair – the previous one had not survived the explosion. The doctor only used it occasionally when he dropped by at 221B these days – but it had been chosen for his height. Mycroft was too tall for it of course so it looked rather funny to see him draped in it.

Or it would have been funny if the circumstances had invited him to laugh…

Sherlock sighed. “I’m just a bit bruised up. I wasn’t observant enough.” He knew very well that he had been very, very lucky… And slipping…

Mycroft nodded. “I see. I guess… recent developments take too much space in your thinking so you can’t concentrate on killers with tire irons anymore.”

Sherlock huffed and then he realised something he should have gotten a while ago. “I… don’t want to go on with this.”

Mycroft winced and bit his lip. “I understand. Well, then it’s better to end it now, before anything -…”

“No! I wasn’t talking about that!” Sherlock was horrified. And surprised. Mycroft had easily deduced that he would have a wank after arriving home last night but now he was jumping to such conclusions? It showed that beneath his calm demeanour (at least when they were not kissing like mad) he was still unsure about Sherlock's sincerity. Which he deserved, considering their history, Sherlock knew it, but it was still disturbing. “I didn’t mean… us. I meant… the cases.” Running after criminals did not really make him happy anymore, did it? It had certainly not done so after Sherrinford.

Now Mycroft was stunned – though clearly also relieved, in probably more than one way. “You’re serious? Your work has always been so important to you.”

The detective shrugged. “I still like the puzzles. I like sitting in this chair, listening to the stories of the clients and unravelling the mystery out of their words. I will always like that. But… I don't get any younger. Five years ago, I would have just elegantly ducked and disarmed the man in one movement.” As it was, he had kicked the man’s legs away when he had tried to attack him again – and he had been lucky that he had still been able to do so and had reacted fast enough at this point at least – and then knocked him out when he had been on the floor. He recalled the fight with Ajay not so long ago. It had been exciting – but he had felt it in his bones for days on end… “I’m too slow, Mycroft. Not my brain – even though that could have worked better today as well – but my transport.” He had figured out who the killer was very quickly. But then he had ignored Lestrade’s nagging about waiting for the police and had – unarmed – gone to save a potential victim – which hadn’t been there in the end – from the murderer by himself, and then he had lacked in both thinking and moving quickly enough to avoid his head being almost smashed in. He had been yelled at quite thoroughly and he was glad that Mycroft had not come to do the same…

His brother gave him a genuine and very sympathetic smile – something Sherlock would not have thought him capable until basically days ago. “Well, perhaps you could stick to looking at the pictures of the crime scenes and perhaps at the victims in the morgue. And you can always help private clients. I can see you sitting here, smoking a pipe, wearing _the hat_ …”

Sherlock laughed. “ _You_ encourage me to smoke? And do you possibly have any fantasies about _the hat_?”

Mycroft didn’t even flinch at that provocation. “I will neither confirm nor deny that,” he said in a deliberately haughty tone that made Sherlock laugh again, which had clearly been his aim. “And… I simply like the picture. You can have a pipe without tobacco.”

“Mm. Will make me look cool,” Sherlock joked, determined to include the hat in their not yet existent sex life someday. “Coat, hat, and pipe.” He grinned and his heart missed a beat when his brother smiled.

But then Mycroft regarded the bandage on his temple again. “Please be careful, Sherlock, as long as you still actively solve cases for the Met. We wouldn’t want you to miss out on what we’re going to have, would we?”

“No,” Sherlock said with utter conviction. “When exactly will we have something naughty then?” It didn’t hurt to ask.

Mycroft grinned and got up. “Not today, I’m afraid. You are injured, little brother.”

“So otherwise you would have -…”

“Never going to find out now,” Mycroft said with false regret. “Do you still want to come over later? Or do you prefer me coming here? Or do you want to be al-…”

“Your place,” Sherlock interrupted him. “It’s Mrs Hudson… As soon as she knows about me having suffered a scratch, she will make a fuss.” Even though she wasn’t that fond of him anymore – any of her boys being injured and she would lose it. And as he hoped they would get tactile a bit at least, he wouldn’t want her to barge in…

“Well, she will wonder where you’ve gone then.”

“Ah, no worries. I will tell her a nice lie. I want to see you, Mycroft.” He stood up, too, ignoring the headache and slight dizziness, and his whole body shuddered when Mycroft curled his arms around his waist for the first time on this day.

“So do I, little brother. Please make sure you get some rest until then.”

It really was not a big deal; he had not even suffered a concussion, and under different circumstances, he would have flared at his brother’s concern. Now he just found it cute. “I will.”

“Call me or text me if you need anything.” Mycroft pecked his lips but Sherlock put his hand onto the back of his head and pulled him in for a real kiss, and Mycroft indulged him for a moment.

“I will,” Sherlock promised again when Mycroft had let him go way too soon for his taste. “And I’m very glad you came. And I’ll be even gladder if you soon come with me,” he added, cheekily, just to see Mycroft smile again.

“Naughty boy,” he was chided good-naturedly. “Well, let me go and yell at some people now.”

“Be extra mean.”

“I shall try my best. Bye, little brother. Try not to get into any more trouble.”

“I’d be happy to get into your pants.”

“Nice one!” Mycroft applauded him.

“Did it work?”

“No.”

Sherlock laughed and rubbed his face against Mycroft's, and his brother patted his back. “I loathe you.” It was amazing that he could say that now, knowing that Mycroft wouldn’t take it seriously. Not so long ago, he _would_ have meant it, and they both knew it.

“I’m sure you do. See you later.”

“Mmm.” Sherlock demanded another kiss and Mycroft granted him with one, and then he left and Sherlock curled up on the couch to take a nap, and, throbbing face or not, he felt decidedly at ease, and he was looking forward to the evening and to whatever they would be up to together.

*****

“What now?” Mycroft gave him a questioning look when Sherlock stepped into his house, storing his phone.

Sherlock grinned maliciously. “That was Lestrade. Yelled at me again for being a _‘reckless, horrible brat who thinks he’s invincible’_.”

Mycroft gave him a knowing smile. “So you told him -…”

“...that he can solve his dangerous cases by himself now, yes. Since I’m so unbearable for him…”

“Cunning.”

Sherlock thought so, too. If he put it like this, he wouldn’t seem as if he had lost his… punch. As if he was getting weak, or old. And he wasn’t. He had realised after waking up from his nap that the real reason for him to not want to run into every danger anymore wasn’t that he was getting slow, not even that it had lost a lot of its appeal, especially as he had been doing it mostly alone for quite some time now as John, his now ex-blogger, wasn’t really part of the team anymore, which reduced it to a one-man-team with a ‘special guest star’ if John did join him on rare occasions. No. Sherlock didn't want to scare his brother anymore. He didn't want to be a reason for more worry for a man who already had a lot on his plate with his own demanding job. And he really didn’t want to get seriously injured, let alone killed, before he had even had the chance to explore his sexuality with him. It wasn’t worth the hassle anymore. He could still point out killers so the police could get them, working with the evidence and the crime scene photographs. He didn't need to chase them through London anymore. Probably it would take longer to stop them then though. Well, Lestrade knew now whom to blame for that – himself. Suited him for getting all loud and annoying. Sherlock had not even bothered to offer him another form of help. Lestrade needed some time to stew.

“So you are really serious about that?” Mycroft seemed to have trouble believing it.

It had been a totally spontaneous decision, yes, but Sherlock knew the fun of the chase had been decreasing for quite some time now. And that was really not that surprising… Because for a while, his cases had ended rather nastily. Mary dead, the Eurus debacle – being blown out of his own flat, that ordeal in Sherrinford… “I am,” he said. He had hung up his coat and sneaked his arms around Mycroft's waist now. “Danger is over for me. Don’t you think I deserve a reward for becoming a borer like you?”

Mycroft laughed out loud and gave him a smack on the arse, which made Sherlock gasp – whether in shock or delight or both, he wasn’t sure. “You are _really_ a brat.”

“I’m amazed that this surprises you,” Sherlock retorted, letting his right hand wander over his brother’s back. Thankfully, he had foregone wearing a jacket again. But of course there was still this bloody fabric of his expensive shirt separating Sherlock's hand from bare, warm skin.

“Fine. You will have your reward,” Mycroft gave in.

Sherlock heard himself producing a noise that suspiciously sounded like purring. “Yes? What is it?”

He was regarded with a stern look. “First, we’ll have dinner. Then you can have my chest.”

“Oooh!” Sherlock freed himself from him and grabbed his wrist. “Let’s go.”

“Where’s my kiss, brother mine?”

“Oh. My bad.” And for the next five minutes, there was no talking – just the squelching noises of two men eating each other’s mouths.

*****

“Wow, Mycroft. Is this jungle inhabited?”

“Ghastly boy. Another such remark and I’ll close my shirt and you will never get to see me fully naked.”

Sherlock chuckled, knowing that Mycroft had very well noticed that he was stunned by the masses of black hair on his chest, stomach, and shoulders – but not in the least repulsed. Quite the opposite. In fact, he found Mycroft’s manly chest sexy as hell. And the man who had taught him to do deductions had certainly not missed his greedy look and dilated pupils. “I know an empty threat when I hear one, brother dear,” he retorted and reached out to touch the hairy skin his brother had just revealed. “May I?” he asked before making contact.

“You may, but don’t blame me if any of your fingers get lost,” Mycroft said in a totally serious tone, but he chuckled when Sherlock slumped against him, shaken by rather hysterical laughter.

God, Mycroft was so funny. So lovely and quick-witted and smart and sexy… And warm… Sherlock rubbed his face against the skin between his brother’s – hardly visible – nipples. The hair was wiry and soft at the same time and the skin underneath smelled like body wash and delicious human skin. Sherlock pulled back to share a smile with his brother before he let his left hand map the soft upper body whose exploration he had been granted with. He would store everything he saw and felt away in the expanding room dedicated to his brother in his mind palace. Every mole, every small scar, the softness of his nipples once he had found them under the fur… And his stomach was flat but soft, and he could feel Mycroft tense when he stroked over it, and he felt a pang of guilt for mocking his brother with his alleged weight problems for so long. “You’re in great shape,” he said, seriously, and then he bent down and brushed a kiss on the skin directly over his brother’s navel. Mycroft shivered and Sherlock could basically see his trousers tenting. His own had been tight for minutes already. “God, Mycroft…”

“Enough, little brother.” Mycroft gently shoved him away. “I can’t give you all the treats at once.”

“You love to keep me waiting, don’t you?”

Mycroft smirked while he closed the buttons of his shirt. “Just teaching you some patience.”

“Patience is boring.”

“Mm. Still you will learn it.”

Sherlock smiled and rubbed Mycroft's wrist. “Fine. Have it your way. But… Know two things: I won’t change my mind and I will certainly not drop you as soon as I’ve had my wicked way with you. That was one thing by the way.”

“I heard you. And I do believe that you think so now.”

“Very diplomatically put,” Sherlock drawled. But here he was, the one notoriously famous for losing interest in almost everything in record time… Not in this, though. Never.

“It’s for the better, trust me.”

“Well, I do. I just hope that you will trust me too, one day.” He put his finger onto Mycroft's mouth when his brother wanted to disagree because they both knew it was a trust issue to some extent, and Sherlock was the first one to admit that he had not done a lot in his life to earn Mycroft's trust… “And the second thing is: as soon as you allow me to get really tactile with you, there will be an explosion of lust.”

Mycroft grinned. “Oh, that sounds nice. Well, the longer I let you wait, the more massive this explosion will be. Delayed gratification is a thing, brother dear.”

Sherlock sighed deeply. “You will always, absolutely always, have the last word, won’t you?”

“I’m doing my best. Kiss?”

Sherlock was all over him within a second.


	5. Chapter 5

“Don't crush me, Sherlock,” Mycroft chuckled, rubbing his back.

“Have to,” mumbled Sherlock against his neck. “Missed you last night.” It had been a very boring evening. He had even taken to chatting with a client about a case that was not at all worth his time because he’d had so much time to pass. That didn't mean he was regretting having told Lestrade that he didn't want to run after killers anymore. He simply needed another hobby for the times when Mycroft was not free… Keeping bees maybe, or crocheting funny little animals for Rosie...

“I can assure you that I would have preferred being with you than attending that ghastly party,” Mycroft assured him. “Cheap champagne, horrible music and all those nasty _people_.”

Something in his tone made Sherlock pull back to scrutinise him. “Anything happened?”

Mycroft sighed. “Just the usual idiots who had too much of said champagne and a lady who couldn’t keep her fingers to herself…”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “You mean that old woman, Smallwood?”

“I do.” Mycroft sounded surprised. “You noticed her… infatuation with me when we met with her?”

To clear his name from being Magnussen’s murderer, he meant. And Sherlock had totally forgotten about his deductions but they had just made a reappearance. “She wants you,” he accused while they were making their way through the hallway.

“Well, it might not surprise you when I say that she will never get me.”

“It’ll be better for her to stop even trying,” Sherlock mumbled.

“How possessive.” Mycroft sounded amused. And flattered.

“I am. Even though you keep behaving like a prude virgin, you are already mine.”

“That was a low blow,” Mycroft said, winking.

“Speaking of blowing…”

“Sherlock!”

“What? You want to tell me you haven’t thought about that? Or is that something you don't want to do?”

They sat down on the couch. “It might amaze you but I don't actually have that much sexual experience myself, Sherlock. It's because I don't like people very much, you know?”

Sherlock grinned, pleased to hear that. “I did wonder about that. So?”

“I am willing to give everything a try. Within reasonable limits.”

“Which makes what impossible?”

“Always the interrogator, Mr Detective. For example I would not want to involve anybody else, for more than the obvious reason, but I guess this is agreeing with you, isn’t it?”

Sherlock shuddered. “Of course. Who do you think I'd want to have in our bed? John? Your Smallwood hag?” He grabbed the glass that was already waiting for him on the table and took a large gulp.

“Fine. And I'm not into pain.”

“Shame. I may not whip you then? And you did smack me on my bum.”

“For disciplinary reasons only,” Mycroft assured him.

“I see. So I can't cut you up to see if you truly have a heart. Shame. What else?”

The older man shrugged. “Well, I think these are my real no-go’s.”

“Wow. That really leaves _a lot_ to try out.” And then he shook his head when a rather unpleasant idea suggested itself. “You don't think you have to entertain me in any possible way to keep me from losing interest, do you? Because I don't want you to do anything you're not truly comfortable with.”

Mycroft smiled a bit sheepishly. “Well, perhaps I can't totally deny that. But the truth is, Sherlock, that I don't actually know what I like and what I loathe in that regard. I can tell you that I do like to top. And that it does feel good to receive a well-performed blowjob.”

Sherlock got all dizzy at these words. He definitely longed for having Mycroft's cock inside him, in any orifice his brother liked him to give up for him. Of course he had even less experience but he really couldn’t wait to make some. “You can take me and use my mouth,” he said, blushing at how wanton that had sounded.

Mycroft regarded him with deep affection. “Thank you. And I will do it for you as well. I do hope we will make plenty of memorable experiences together.”

“Starting when?” Sherlock insisted, his hand searching for Mycroft's knee.

The older man chuckled. “So eager, little brother.”

“You owe me something for standing me up last night.”

“I technically _didn’t_ stand you up though. I let you know hours ago that I wouldn’t get out of attending this awful event.”

Sherlock didn’t see why his powerful brother had to succumb to such idiotic social conventions but he just pursed his lips in disgust.

Mycroft reached out and cupped his cheek. “Well, since I did let you suffer, all by yourself…”

“Yes?” Sherlock supposed he was looking at his brother like a needy puppy but he didn’t care.

“I think we could offer each other some friction,” Mycroft said in a casual tone. “Without getting naked though.”

“I have no idea what you mean and not getting naked doesn’t sound good to me but whatever you say. Here?”

Mycroft got up and emptied his glass. “Lie down on your back, little brother, and I’ll show you.”

Sherlock hurled himself onto the couch after kicking his shoes off his feet, his heart beating fast and his mouth getting dry at the prospect of getting _something_ from big brother Mycroft.

*****

At the first contact of their – sadly clothed – groins, Sherlock produced a moan that echoed from the ceiling.

Mycroft chuckled and rubbed his nose against his cheekbone. “So easy to set on fire, brother dear?”

Sherlock slung his legs around his brother’s midst to get some more of this delicious friction. “You’re as hard as I am,” he retorted, pushing his brother’s lower half down with his thighs to stress his point. Having his achingly stiff cock rubbing against its counterpart was sending sparks of almost painful pleasure through his groin, and his heart rate had increased profoundly. God, he wanted to fuck with his brother and he wanted it now.

“I don’t deny it.”

“Would be rather pointless anyway, wouldn’t it? And still you don’t want to get naked? Don't want to really use this large thing of yours with me? Do you really have such a martyr complex, brother?” Damn. He had just sounded a tad frustrated, knowing Mycroft wouldn’t let him do more tonight...

“That’s rich, coming from you.” Mycroft immediately froze above him. “I’m sorry.”

Sherlock knew exactly what he had been talking about. Who had faked his death and disappeared to suffer for two long years to save his friends? Who had blamed himself for the actions of someone else, paying for their death with drugging himself into the ground after being clean for so long, being beaten up and almost getting killed by a serial killer as a result? “Yeah,” he mumbled, letting his legs slide from Mycroft's body. “Touché.”

Mycroft pulled back a bit just to lay his hand onto his cheek. “I really am sorry.”

“Well, I did provoke you. And we both know you’re right.” He almost added, _‘How does it feel to be always right?’_ but he could refrain from it in the last second. But since he was dealing with Mycroft, it wasn’t necessary of course as his brother heard the unspoken words.

The older man sat up, his face showing his regret and discomfort. Sherlock joined him, letting himself slump against his shoulder. Mycroft immediately embraced him, and his gratitude for the gesture was unmissable.

“Sorry for being a mood killer, little brother,” he whispered.

Sherlock smiled a little sadly. “Well, it went too smoothly anyway so far, didn’t it? This was bound to happen eventually. A bit of a throw-back to the bad old times.”

“I do hope you still want to go on with the good ones…”

“Naturally. You don't think I’d give up so easily?”

Mycroft urged him to move closer so they could kiss. “Thank you, Sherlock.”

And it was only in this moment that Sherlock realised for the first time how Mycroft must have been feeling about all this… He had never liked John, and Mary had meant absolutely nothing to him, just like Mrs Hudson, who had never been very nice to him. And Sherlock couldn’t imagine that he cared any more about Lestrade. And still he had helped Sherlock prepare his mission to take Moriarty’s network apart to save his friends, with the result of having no personal contact with him for years afterwards. He had killed Magnussen right in front of Mycroft's eyes even though he had heard him begging him to drop the gun – had he really not even considered that Mycroft would take care of the problem of him and John having tried to betray the country in a less lethal way? And Sherlock knew that Mycroft had been in Baker Street to find the source for his downward-spiralling during the Smith-case – because he had been worried to bits.

And then he had almost died at Smith’s hands, and he had not wasted a thought on how Mycroft had to be suffering from this. Instead he had tortured his brother with Wiggins’ colleagues to find out about Eurus after she had targeted John not much later. Everything Sherlock had done in recent years had been for the benefit of his friends, especially John and Mary – with no regard for his own health, safety and life, and completely ignoring the impact it had to have on the brother who had always tried to protect him – and probably Mycroft had been very tempted to take both Mary and John out for harming him but he had swallowed his wrath because he had known that Sherlock wouldn’t approve of any action against the Watsons.

And now that Mycroft was simply trying to make sure that their non-brotherly relationship didn’t destroy their brotherly bond and wasn’t overwhelming either of them, Sherlock had thrown his concern into his face like he had always done.

He swallowed hard, and now it was his turn to gently touch his brother’s face. “I’m sorry, brother mine. So sorry for all I’ve put you through and for being the awful brat you always said I w-…”

The _‘was’_ was stifled by two soft lips that were pressing on his, and Sherlock eagerly returned the kiss, his arms slung firmly around his brother’s neck. They kissed until they were both out of breath, and then they simply sat together, arms wrapped around each other, and Sherlock hoped he had been getting across that these times that had been so painful for both of them would never return and that he was determined to make up for them. And if Mycroft needed this slow pace and thought he needed it, too, he would wait for being intimate with him until he was old and grey if Mycroft decided to postpone any intimacy for so long, and he would be fucking patient, even if his trousers exploded with need every time he was shut up with a kiss...


	6. Chapter 6

“I hope you don’t mind?” Sherlock questioningly raised the paper bag with the two thick sandwiches he had bought on his way to Whitehall. They had been texting with each other and Mycroft had complained about the endless string of meetings he’d had to endure during the morning and the three more he would have to attend in the early afternoon, leaving him hardly any time for a break, _‘and just because the goldfish need an hour to understand something that you and me would have gotten in half a minute.’_

Mycroft hadn’t looked at all as if he minded his company when Anthea had let Sherlock into his office and closed the door behind them, glancing at the bag rather suspiciously – probably thinking that he was here to poison his brother... Mycroft had and still looked touched at the gesture. “That’s a very nice surprise, brother mine.” He took the tuna sandwich Sherlock was offering him with a decidedly pleased smile. “I suppose you have no ulterior motives for that though?” He winked at Sherlock to show that he was joking – something he wouldn’t have done before their little argument of the previous day.

Sherlock didn’t want them to walk on eggshells around each other but he didn’t know how to put that in words that would not offend Mycroft… Damn… This relationship business was really difficult… Especially as they were not only so inexperienced with it but also dealing with so much not-so-pleasant history...

Mycroft gave him a wry smile while providing him with a glass of mineral water. “It’s okay, little brother. We knew it would be work.”

“I don’t mind _work_ ,” Sherlock said. “I just don’t want to hurt you any more than I’ve already done basically all my life.”

“I told you before – I don’t resent you for anything. But I appreciate your thoughtfulness very much. Not just for bringing lunch but for being so sensitive.”

“Never thought I had that in me,” Sherlock mused. “Well. You were asking about ‘ulterior motives’. What if I wanted you to give me a blowjob on your desk for feeding you?”

“Then, brother dear, you would be sadly disappointed,” Mycroft smirked and bit into his sandwich.

“Damn,” mumbled Sherlock, and he winked, too, just to be sure. Being considerate towards other people’s feelings was quite demanding. But Mycroft was worth it. And he assumed that there would be a time in which they could be totally at ease with each other. Until then, he would do his best to not put a foot in it every time he opened his mouth for something else than devouring a tasty meal…

*****

“Mmm. This is nice.”

Sherlock could only agree. They were dancing… In Mycroft's living room. A really slow dance to some sappy song from the eighties he had found on YouTube. He wasn’t sure why a song about dreams being someone’s reality appealed to him but it did. Holding on to Mycroft and feeling his brother’s arms wrapped tightly around him while moving to the music in sync appealed to him even more. And thankfully, Mycroft seemed to be enjoying himself as well if his relaxed body language – apart from a certain, definitely not relaxed part in his midst that was poking against Sherlock's groin quite incessantly – was anything to go by.

They had shared a rather late dinner after Mycroft had finally been finished with his chores for the day and had been allowed to go home. His housekeeper had prepared a tasty potato gratin for him – Sherlock had learned that she came twice a week – and Mycroft had generously shared it with him, along with a freshly prepared green salad.

And to Sherlock's surprise, he had immediately agreed to dance with him. As he had told Janine many years ago, Sherlock loved to dance but he hardly ever had the chance. And dancing with the man he loved more every day was better than any dance he had ever experienced. With gallows humour, he had imagined asking their parents if they wanted to do some line-dancing with them… He had not mentioned it as he didn't want Mycroft to develop some seriously second thoughts. In fact, Sherlock was fine with having to hide their relationship. It was the most private matter he had ever had and he didn't want to gossip about it so even if he had been able to tell anyone, he would have gladly given it a miss.

He did fill Mycroft's growing room in his mind palace with the perceptions of this moment of closeness. The warmth of his brother’s body, pressed against his own, moving to the music. The hardness of his shoulders. His infatuating scent. The soft skin of his cheek – he had managed to shave before Sherlock had appeared.

“ _I want you to have your own keys to this house,”_ big brother had said over dinner.

“ _I do have them,”_ Sherlock had said, dryly. Not that long ago he had been joking – if it even had been a joke – that he would use them to get in here to asphyxiate his brother… He really had been a stupid man.

“ _Yes, but I never actually_ gave _them to you,”_ Mycroft had smirked. _“Now please be assured that I_ want _you to have them and to use them whenever you like.”_

“ _You only want me to make you dinner when your housekeeper hasn’t been there.”_

“ _Got me.”_

“ _I will rummage through all your secret files.”_

“ _If you find a case worth your IQ, by all means, do not hesitate to solve it, little brother.”_

It was so nice to joke around with him again. To have some lightness. There had been so much darkness in their mutual past, and their confrontation of sorts on the previous day had only been a hint at that. They needed lightness, and they needed love, and this dance was definitely an action of love.

Sherlock’s heart started to beat even faster when he felt Mycroft's large hands sliding over his back – and briefly over his arse, and there might even have been a gentle squeeze of one buttock. He almost sobbed at that, craving more than such a teasing touch.

And then he held his breath when Mycroft worked one of his warm hands under his shirt and let it explore his back. It felt so good and soothing and exciting at the same time, as innocent as this touch was. He also felt a bit self-conscious as he knew what Mycroft would certainly not miss – his old criss-cross scars from Serbia, the souvenir of being whipped in order to make him spill out information about himself and why he had tried to infiltrate the criminal network. Mycroft had been there when he had gotten them so he knew very well that they were there. But that didn’t necessarily mean they would not put him off, plus they would remind him of the lengths Sherlock had gone to save John – yes, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade as well but he had mainly done it for John as they both knew. But the doctor had more or less disappeared from his life while Mycroft would always be there. But if he found his back repelling…?

He should have known better.

“My dear, dear boy,” Mycroft whispered, caressing him gently, letting his fingers trace alongside what had been angry, red welts and were now thickened, pink skin. “You suffered so much and came out so much stronger on the other side. My beautiful boy.”

And Sherlock caught himself actually sobbing at the tenderness of his tone and the genuine praise of his words, and he felt mortified by it, but Mycroft only made a quiet, soothing noise and searched his lips for another one of these breathtaking kisses, and if this was his answer to everything, Sherlock was absolutely fine with that as he loved kissing big brother more than anything.

He gasped when Mycroft pulled back just enough to opening the first button of his shirt. “May I?” he asked, looking into Sherlock’s eyes.

“Yes!” croaked Sherlock. “By all means – open them all!”

Mycroft smiled and deftly unbuttoned Sherlock's new red shirt, batting Sherlock's hand away when he tried to do the same with Mycroft's.

Sherlock groaned in frustration as he realised he would still not get what he wanted so badly.

“Don’t sulk, little brother mine. It’s unbecoming,” smirked his insufferable big brother, and then he freed Sherlock from his shirt and bent down to kiss his neck and nibble at his collarbones while the tips of his thumbs teased Sherlock's nipples.

Sherlock was so hard that he could have beaten someone unconscious with his prick. He needed release and he needed it quickly. “Mycroft…”

“Shhhh. It’s all good.”

Sherlock walked backwards when he was urged to do so, and he let himself be guided to the couch. When he had lain down like the evening before, Mycroft was all over him within a second, kissing his nipples now, sucking them, while giving no friction to his cock whatsoever.

Sherlock was almost crazy with lust and need now, and if that had been Mycroft's goal, he had been doing a marvellous job… His nipples were as hard as his cock now, and there seemed to be a direct connection between these otherwise useless leftovers of evolution and his achingly stiff penis. In fact, Mycroft's deft caresses of his small, dark nubs made his cock strain against its confinements harder than ever before.

And then! Finally – Mycroft showed mercy. His long fingers unzipped Sherlock’s black jeans and his cock sprang out against Mycroft's palm – and he came in violent spurts before his brother’s fingers had even seriously closed around his dark-red shaft. The white, sticky seed was practically flying everywhere, and even Sherlock's nose was hit by some hot fluid, and he fleetingly wondered whether he would have drowned himself in his semen if he had not taken the edge off his arousal a few times over the past couple of days in some desperate wanking sessions…

“Oh dear,” said Mycroft, looking at his soiled hand while Sherlock's cock was still twitching in the aftermath of his orgasm, and before Sherlock basically passed out in bliss and shock, slumping in the pillows that Mycroft had put behind his back, a silly grin pulling at his lips, he might have watched Mycroft licking off his digits with an expression of being absolutely pleased even though he had not reached his crisis himself.


	7. Chapter 7

_Damn… Mycroft! SH_

_A good morning to you, too, little brother. Why are you cursing me at this early hour? MH_

_I can still feel your hand around my cock! SH_

_And if you answer now that it was not there long enough to even remember it with an eidetic memory, I’ll hack into the Pentagon and let some missiles fly towards Whitehall! SH_

_What a very creative threat, brother dear. It would probably make more sense to let them fly to the White House though… MH_

_And I did not plan to write anything like that. It was very flattering, actually. It seems you were enjoying yourself quite a lot. MH_

‘ _Quite a lot’ is it, brother. Did you get all the stains off the couch? SH_

_Ah, no worries. Looks like new. Did you sleep well? MH_

_Like a baby. But Mycroft! SH_

_I’m listening. So to speak. MH_

_You have to let me touch you, too! I demand it! SH_

_I see. I was merely out for providing some release to your rather desperate arousal. MH_

_You think you are ready for more? MH_

_Yes! Yes! Yes!!! SH_

_Now that sounded quite convincing. Fine. Tonight, if you still think you want it then. MH_

_Oh God, thank you! SH_

_And I thought God doesn’t exist? MH_

_Don’t be smart. SH_

_But I’m the smart one. MH_

_No. You’re just the sexy one. SH_

_I think I can live with that. MH_

_So are you, brother mine. MH_

_Let me do some work now. Talk later. MH_

_Did you do it? SH_

_I beg your pardon? MH_

_You know what I mean! Did you wank when you had put me in the car? SH_

_A gentleman etc., etc. MH_

_Fuck gentleman! SH_

_Not so quickly, dear brother. MH_

_But soon! SH_

_Yes. Soon. MH_

_Have a good day, brother. And thank you. SH_

_You, too. And you can thank me later. MH_

_Oh, I will… SH_

_I can’t wait. Bye. MH_

_Bye, brother mine. SH_

*****

Sherlock was actually vibrating with energy and anticipation when he used his key after ringing the doorbell to announce his arrival. But he was also half expecting that Mycroft had changed his mind about taking things further tonight. And he really didn’t know what he would do if big bro had decided since their last texting session in the afternoon that holding hands and snogging would have to do for another three weeks or months or years… It wasn’t that he didn’t love doing that but he needed so much more!

Mycroft came walking down the hallway when he had just closed the door behind him. It really felt like… coming home. Using his key. Being awaited by his hard-working man, who had only texted him half an hour ago that he was free now.

“You have a bathroom in your office,” he said while he hung up his coat. “That’s why you are already showered and shaven.”

“Got me. Nobody is allowed to use it but me. In fact, I have a key for it.” Mycroft had reached him and put his hands onto Sherlock's waist.

“Of course you do,” Sherlock smirked and slung his arms around his neck, scrutinising him. He could sense very clearly that Mycroft would not back out. He would be allowed to finally touch him for real!

Mycroft didn’t miss his look of triumph and want. “You look hungry, brother dear,” he teased him and pecked him on the lips.

“Yes. Hungry for your cock,” Sherlock said deliberately wantonly.

Big brother just chuckled. “Are you now. Well, we will have dinner first, and then you can have a dessert.”

“A big one.”

“I do believe so,” Mycroft said, humbly. “But please don’t raise your expectations too high. I am not ready for penetrative sex.”

“ _You_ are not ready? Or you think _I_ am not?” Sherlock let his fingers play with a delicate earlobe, making his brother shiver.

“That doesn’t really matter, does it?”

“Not really, no. Fine. But _not penetrative_ doesn’t mean not going into _any_ orifice, does it?” Sherlock enquired, unconsciously licking his lips.

“How decently put, dear brother. Not necessarily, no. Does that mean you want me to do it for you? Or you for me?”

“You show me how it’s done first – as you should be aware I have no practical knowledge of these things and you have at least been on the receiving end of that kind of attention – and then I will return the favour as soon as I’m able to move again.” He was actually very glad that Mycroft had not done this for anyone else before, either. He didn’t like the picture of Mycroft sucking another man’s cock. Though it raised the question of just how his brother’s relationships, if one wanted to call them that, with some goldfish men had been if he had only been served before… But he wouldn’t ask Mycroft as he didn’t really want to know. Actually, he also didn’t want to imagine anyone who wasn’t him doing it for his lover. And if anyone ever dared try to get close to Mycroft from now on, he should better be prepared for continuing his existence without a head…

“That’s the plan, huh?”

Sherlock nodded vehemently. “Yes!”

“I do approve of this plan.”

“Come. Let’s skip dinner and start with the dessert!”

“Nice try, Sherlock.”

“Damn…” But Sherlock was smiling, and he would certainly be able to wait for another half an hour or so. But if Mycroft dragged dinner out for too long, he couldn’t guarantee for not jumping him at the table.

Mycroft deduced his thoughts and raised a well-groomed eyebrow. “Behave, brother dear.”

“Never do. Why would I start now?”

Mycroft huffed out a long-suffering sigh and Sherlock yelped when his bum was pinched by long fingers, and chuckling together, they walked through the corridor with the ghastly paintings, and Sherlock panted like an excited dog just to make big bro laugh some more.

*****

Nothing had ever taken so much willpower than forcing his own body back from the edge now that his cock was engulfed by the soft, wet warmth of his brother’s mouth. He was sitting, propped up against several pillows, on his brother’s bed with his legs spread wantonly, looking down at his brother, who was doing all the work for now.

There had been a hint of teeth right at the beginning and perhaps that had helped him refrain from shooting his load down his brother’s throat within a second. But now that Mycroft had covered his sharp teeth with his soft lips and was applying more and more pressure, licking around Sherlock's crown and teasing the super sensitive underside of it with the tip of his tongue, it felt like some sort of exquisite torture. Actually Sherlock pictured his efforts as crawling backwards from the edge of a volcano while simultaneously being pulled towards it. He craved his release but he also wanted this to last as long as possible as having his aching prick getting worked over by Mycroft's tongue and lips felt absolutely divine, and he wanted to learn from it so he could torture and pleasure Mycroft with it as well.

Considering that it was his first time, Mycroft mastered the art of blowing a man twice around the moon with his usual perfection. He took more of Sherlock's considerable prick down his throat every few seconds, until he was basically swallowing around it. There was some gagging on his part and his eyes looked watery but he seemed to be enjoying himself almost as much as Sherlock was under his ministrations.

“I always knew, oh, that you have a devilish tongue, brother, oh, mine,” he rasped out, his hand buried in Mycroft's fine hair.

His brother, utterly silenced for a change, patted his thigh in a silent response, and managed to poke his tongue out and lick the base of Sherlock's cock while fondling his balls for the first time. It caught Sherlock off guard and he screamed while succumbing to the violent orgasm that was ripping through his groin.

Mycroft was crying thick tears now and he coughed when he let Sherlock's still twitching prick go but he had managed to swallow most of the thick fluid and he seemed worked up but not overly appalled by having been flooded with Sherlock's cream.

“God, Mycroft… Wasn’t it ghastly?” It was a sheer miracle that he could talk at all with no blood left in his brain.

Mycroft grinned. “You think it is? I suppose you won’t return the favour then?”

“As if. Course I will. So? How do I taste?”

“Hm. Why don’t you judge for yourself?” Mycroft scrambled up to him and pressed his damp lips on his, and Sherlock eagerly licked out his mouth, wondering why he had never bothered tasting his own come.

It wasn’t exactly a pleasant taste but it was his own, mixed with Mycroft's saliva, and he savoured it, storing all the fine nuances in his mind palace. They would do this many times now and he would experiment with all kinds of food and drinks to see if it influenced the taste as he had read.

Mycroft had still not taken off his trousers, which was appalling.

“I want to finally see all of you now, brother,” Sherlock said, sternly. “And I want to have your cock to play with.”

“Do you now… I hope it will still be attached to my groin afterwards…”

“Can’t promise that if it’s as tasty as your lips,” joked Sherlock, earning a playful bite at his ear.

He had enjoyed himself very much. He could only hope that he could return the favour without too much embarrassment and no pain for the British Government.

*****

How had his brother done this? Swallowed his cock whole without really making a noise? Sherlock was sure that he had never produced such indecent noises in his entire life. Not even with acute diarrhoea… His spit was running over his chin and his nose was running, as well as his eyes… And he was pretty sure he had bitten his brother about five times already...

Mycroft urged him to stop and let him go. “You don’t have to do it, Sherlock, perhaps you should -…”

“Nonsense.” Sherlock rummaged in the pockets of his trousers, which he had unceremoniously dropped onto the floor, for a handkerchief and took care of the mess that was his face. “I just have to get used to it. God… Look at you…” He had basically thrown himself onto his brother’s large cock as soon as Mycroft had finally taken off his trousers and pants. But now he really took in the sight of his brother’s long-limbed body, spread out so nicely on the bed for him. All this pale skin, slightly freckled, very hairy, slim and muscular legs, a firm arse and a stomach that was softer than his own but not rounded at all. A very attractive man, oozing charisma even in this rather undignified state. In fact, he managed to look totally dignified despite being divested of any kind of textile armour.

And he was in love with him. Madly. Terrifyingly. He had never felt that stronger than in this moment. He hurried to Mycroft's side and snuggled against him, running his hand through the fur on his stomach, up to his chest, before he grabbed his brother’s slightly bent and thankfully still hard cock. “Sorry if I hurt you,” he mumbled, and Mycroft pinched his cheek.

“You didn’t. And I wouldn’t be disappointed if you didn’t suck me off…”

“You would.”

Mycroft smiled. “No. There are many other ways to give each other pleasure. I loved to do it for you,” he hurried to add. “But I don’t expect -…”

“You never expected anything from me. Other than to be safe and sober.” Sherlock kissed his brother’s long neck.

“That is true.”

“I never wanted to hear it. But I will always listen now.”

Mycroft gave him his best doubtfully-raised eyebrows.

“Okay, almost always. If you don’t expect me to be nice to idiots…” He smiled when Mycroft chuckled. “But I want to do it. I want to do everything to you. Can I try again? Now?”

“Of course. But if you don’t like it…”

“Hush, brother. Just lie back and let me have you.”

“Consider me all yours.”

And he was, and Sherlock proceeded to take him apart, kissing his way down from Mycroft's nipples, which he sucked thoroughly, down to his stomach and southwards until he closed his lips around the thick, red crown of his cock again, savouring all the bitter-sweet-musky tastes and the fascinating feeling of Mycroft's glans against his tongue before he slowly took him deeper, getting used indeed to the intrusion, and this time, his nose behaved and his eyes watered only slightly, and Mycroft's face showed nothing but stunned bliss, and Sherlock called it a huge success.

When Mycroft pulled his cock out before he came, Sherlock let him though – he didn't want to overdo himself at the first try. And, proud to have brought Mycroft to his orgasm, he rubbed the sticky fluid into the smooth skin of his chest as Mycroft had showered it instead of making him swallow it, watching his brother get all boneless and slump into the pillows, and he joined him, listening to the erratic heartbeat of the man he loved.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock felt as if he was floating when he stepped out of the cab after paying the driver. He was quite sure that this silly grin that was pulling at his lips wouldn’t go away so soon, either. Even though the corners of his mouth hurt a bit – he’d had to open his mouth quite wide to pleasure his brother, hung like a donkey that he was. It had been a spectacular experience – both ways. And he couldn’t wait to repeat it, with more skill but the same enthusiasm, not even mentioning having actual intercourse with his brother.

His smile died sooner than he would have expected when he saw John leaning against the front door. He didn’t look very happy. Did he ever?

Sherlock hoped that it was dark enough to conceal his puffy, sore lips. “Hello, John. That’s a surprise.” John never dropped by in the evening. He had Rosie and his job and hey, he was dating again! So soon…

The doctor nodded. “Yeah. Nobody’s home, huh?” He didn’t have a key anymore. Well, he didn’t live here anymore… “Texted you, too.”

“Oh. Must have missed it.” In fact, Sherlock had not even looked at his phone all evening. Why should he have? “Mrs Hudson’s with her boyfriend, I suppose.”

“Yeah. And you?” John looked at him with narrowed eyes.

“I wasn’t,” Sherlock lied. Well, it wasn’t a real lie though. Mycroft was his lover now, too, but of course he would always be his brother in the first place. ‘Boyfriend’ was certainly not the term Sherlock would have used to describe him now. Partner, yes. Probably his ‘other half’, too. So alike and yet so different, these two halves that they were…

“Did you get high?” John interrupted his pleasant musing, his tone gloomy and impatient.

Oh. Of course. That was what he always assumed when Sherlock dared going out of the house. “Not exactly, no.” Sherlock sighed. “Don't look at me like that, John. I didn’t take anything.” _‘…but my brother’s cock into my mouth’_ he didn’t add.

“What’s so funny?” John promptly asked as Sherlock’s abused lips had twitched at the thought.

Why was he so aggressive all at once? Well, not that John Watson being aggressive was something particularly new. But why now? “What do you want, John?” he asked with more exasperation than he had planned.

John snorted. “Yeah. What? What is wrong with you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You,” John started pacing around, throwing his hands into the air, “have just vanished, haven’t you? You don’t reply to texts. You’re avoiding Molly. And you tell Lestrade he can solve his cases alone now?”

“Oh, I see. Gavin sent you.”

“Greg! His name is _Greg_!” yelled John, making Sherlock wince.

“I know that. It was a joke…” Probably not a good one… Sherlock rubbed his face with both hands. His good mood had disappeared as if it had never been there. He longed for going inside and snuggle up on his bed. “He had it coming, John.”

“Why? Because he told you off for risking your life again?”

“I never heard you complain about me risking my life for you or Mary,” Sherlock retorted, getting nothing but a sneer for a reply. He couldn’t believe that they were standing on the pavement, accusing each other. Where had this suddenly come from? Yes. Because he had allowed himself sentiment for a change, and apparently that also influenced his behaviour in other situations.

They had never really talked about that, had they? There had been apologies, yes. But real forgiveness, too? Judging by John’s look and tone, probably not on his side. “What is this really about, John?” he asked, quieter now. “Why do you care if I meet Molly or help Lestrade? You’ve hardly ever been with me when I solved a case for him since forever.”

John huffed out an unamused laugh. “Yeah, wonder why? Perhaps because I’m a single dad with a full-time job who can’t risk his life anymore because his daughter only has him anymore?”

“And _I_ have nothing else to do and if I get killed, it doesn’t matter, right?” It hurt. It really did.

The doctor glowered at him. “Of course it matters! My wife died for you! And I’ve always tried to make you a… a decent person, and suddenly nobody matters to you anymore? If you take a case, you bring yourself in danger and then you suddenly decide it’s beneath you?”

“You’re not making any sense, John,” Sherlock said, feeling absolutely exhausted all at once. “Just say it as it is. You still resent me for Mary’s death and I can do nothing right in your eyes. If I risk my life, I’m irresponsible and cast a slur on Mary’s memory. If I don’t want to do dangerous cases anymore, I’m letting Greg down, and in some mysterious way you as well.” Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that John was seeing someone? Was he feeling guilty? He had certainly not mentioned his new crush with a single word… Well, at least this time it was hopefully not Eurus...

He shook his head. “Go home, John. What I do or don’t do is no longer your concern. It never has been, actually.”

John ruffled his short, blond hair, looking absolutely pissed off. “Yeah, right. I’m just your friend.”

What a fucking awful déjà-vu… “I don’t have friends,” Sherlock mumbled, just like the last time. _‘I’ve just got one – and that’s my brother… And you have longed ceased to be one.’_

He opened the door with his key, and when he pushed it open, he turned to see John walk away with his head hanging but his shoulders stiff in anger and outrage. Out of his life. It stung. And when he walked upstairs, it felt as if he was stepping onto the shards of a friendship that had meant so much to him for so long. But he had enough now. He didn't have any energy for repairing bonds that were beyond repair – bonds that had run their courses.

He took a long, extra hot shower and stepped out of the cubicle with his skin reddened all over and his face burning. He crawled under his blanket, shivering at the contact with the cool fabric, and he wondered if he should call Mycroft. But his brother needed his rest. It wouldn’t do to appear needy and clingy, and whining about John was probably not what Mycroft wanted to hear from him. And it wasn’t what he wanted to do anyways.

Alone had always protected him. Well – he wasn’t alone anymore of course. Should they all go to hell, as long as Mycroft was on his side. If he just could have been here now...

When he finally fell asleep, his eyes were burning with unshed tears.

*****

Sherlock had been spending some time on Mycroft's treadmill. Had drunk a lot of water afterwards and taken a shower, alternating between hot and cold water until he had cursed. He was clean shaven and had even eaten an apple. He should be looking good.

But this was _Mycroft_ he was dealing with. One look from his brother, who had been too busy during the day for any prolonged texting and had only stepped into the house a second ago, and Mycroft tilted his head. “Bad day?”

“Damn. I can’t hide anything from you.” Sherlock grinned wryly. “But no. Today was pretty relaxed, actually.”

Mycroft nodded while slipping out of his coat. “So it happened last night, hm?”

“That’s disconcerting.”

Mycroft smiled and shook his head. “Deductions, brother dear? Suddenly a foreign concept to you?” He curled his arms around Sherlock's waist, and Sherlock slumped against him, huffing out a contented sigh at the close contact with soft tweed and warm skin.

He nuzzled his face against Mycroft's neck. “I’m sure I won’t have to tell you who it was.”

“No need, no.” Mycroft rubbed his back. “The good doctor did always have the biggest impact on you after all. Your best friend. The kind of friend that makes enemies obsolete…”

Sherlock puffed against his neck, his arms firmly wrapped around his brother. He smelled so good after a long day at the office. “He wasn’t always like that.” But for way too long. Actually, he had not known John anymore ever since he had returned from his mission to tear Moriarty’s network apart. He should have known that there would never be a way back to the lightness and trust of the early days. Not after all that had happened since he had leaped off the rooftop with his arms spread – making John watch his alleged death.

“No. But he did try to change you from day one.”

“So did you.” Sherlock pulled back to meet his brother’s gaze.

Mycroft gave him a strangely sad smile. “It might have appeared to you like that, yes. But you’ve said it yourself – I always just wanted you to be safe and sober.”

“And behaving like an adult. Told me to grow up? In Buckingham Palace?” Sherlock reminded him, his eyebrows raised.

Mycroft grimaced and nodded. “I did, yes. But you have to admit that you’d provoked me thoroughly into doing that.”

Sherlock smiled, feeling nostalgic. “Ah. These were the good old days.”

That brought him an undignified snort. “Of making me livid 24/7, yes.”

“Ah, you’re exaggerating. We didn't even meet that often.” Sherlock smirked and was not surprised that the smirk was kissed from his lips the next moment.

“You’re not really missing those days, are you?” Mycroft asked when they had parted for air after an extensive snogging session.

“Course not.” Sherlock shook his head with conviction. So much had happened since then. He had ‘died’, weaselled his way into Moriarty’s ranks, and had come back to a broken friendship. Then he had died for real – only to fight himself back to life. He had lost John and Molly as friends, Lestrade was pissed off at him, and he wasn’t in Mrs Hudson’s good books anymore. But the most important change, a change definitely for the better, was this, of course. Snogging in the hallway with his brother. About to enjoy dinner with him. And share his bed for a while. But… “Can I stay? Tonight?”

Mycroft smiled in a way that made Sherlock's knees go all wobbly. “That would be lovely. And I think you’re in need of some serious cheering up.”

“Sex, you mean?”

Mycroft chuckled. “If you were a puppy, you would be wagging your tail like mad now,” he teased him, squeezing his waist.

Sherlock grinned. “I don’t have to be a puppy to do that, dear brother,” he joked, earning a playful slap to his backside.

“Rotten boy,” chided Mycroft, affectionately.

“All yours,” nodded Sherlock, reaching for his hand.

“Lucky me.”

“Very lucky. Both of us.”

Mycroft nodded and pulled him close once more. “Let me spoil you, lover mine.”

And Sherlock wondered what he had done to deserve this man he had treated so horribly for so long, but he knew one thing for sure – he would never let him go again.

*****

It was different this time. More… serious. They had undressed side by side and slipped under the blanket, and Sherlock was the little spoon in the big spoon’s embrace now. An embrace that felt more like comfort than a promise for sex. But Mycroft had not bothered with pyjamas after all and the feeling of his soft, warm skin against Sherlock's bare back was divine, and he could feel himself finally relax for real.

They had enjoyed their dinner – pasta with mushrooms and a simple green salad – and talked about basic stuff like the stupidity of people in general and the PM in particular. They had not touched any touchy subject like the fact that Sherlock had run out of friends and joy for his job.

He had not had a client today, and he had not missed it. But he was too young to retire, wasn’t he? His brain needed occupation so he had to go on solving puzzles. It was all he was really good at. But that was not what he was planning to deal with now – questions about his future. Future-him could take care of that.

He reached back to fumble Mycroft's firm little behind and push him even closer against his back. Moving his own backside against Mycroft's groin, he elicited a breathy moan from his brother and could feel something stir against his cleft.

“Mm, little brother. Seducing me despite your melancholic mood?” Mycroft mumbled against his hair, his hot breath making the little hairs on Sherlock's neck stand up.

“Not melancholic anymore. Well, maybe a bit,” conceded Sherlock. “Why don’t you take advantage of me?” Mycroft took a deep breath to answer, so Sherlock hurried to add, “I meant that in a solely pragmatic way. I read that it feels quite lovely to have one’s opening rubbed against.”

“Oh, I see. So in fact you want to take advantage of my rudely stiffening appendage?”

Sherlock chuckled. “Such decent choice of words. Yes. Rub your sexy cock against my hole, Mycroft. Show me how that feels.”

“Mm. So that will be our lesson for today? As you wish, brother mine.” Mycroft loosened his grip around him and reached out for the top drawer of his bedside table.

A plastic bottle was opened up, and then Sherlock cursed when cool fluid was applied to his warm cleft.

“Sorry. There is no way to warm it up.”

“That’s quite alright. Oh…”

“Does that feel pleasant?”

Sherlock closed his eyes, feeling the flexible head of Mycroft's generous member nudge against the sensitive flesh of his opening. “It does indeed. Oh, fuck…” Mycroft had closed his hand around Sherlock's rapidly swelling cock, and was massaging it now with just the right amount of pressure. “Not going to last long,” Sherlock mumbled. “Nothing new here…”

“Just let go. Or come, if you will. I have you.”

And that was the bottom line, wasn’t it? Mycroft would always have him. Succumbing to the awfully pleasant stimulation of both his hole and his throbbing cock, Sherlock spent over Mycroft's deft hand and shuddered when his lower back was showered with Mycroft's hot essence in return and Mycroft bit down on his shoulder, and John Watson and all the other people were so far away.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock was shuddering. Pretending he wasn’t hearing what his ears told him he was. Mrs Hudson… giggling. Well, he had heard that before. When John had been about to ask him to be his best man, for example. A memory he shushed at once. When she had been watching some silly telly, of course. But not like this. And not with a male voice thrown in the mix… Mr Bloomingham. Ex-army. A wealthy gentleman. Making Mrs Hudson giggle in the hallway. Probably by kissing the living hell out of her. Yuck...

Well, Sherlock knew he shouldn’t be so selfish. Mycroft made him happy, too, after all. And after all the mess she’d had with the drug-cartel husband he had helped her get rid of, after bombings in his flat and all the other shit he and John had brought into this house, she certainly deserved some happiness.

Sherlock sipped at his tea. He had made it himself after returning from Mycroft’s house. The times of Mrs Hudson bringing him his breakfast were over, too. The times of sharing a flat were over for good as well. Well, tough chance. He was happy.

Waking up in his brother’s arms had been amazing. Sherlock had never shared a bed with someone for a full night. They had not had any more sex. But there had been cuddling and kissing, and Sherlock had recently discovered that he was a heavy sucker for cuddles and kisses. So was Mycroft, Mr Not-Iceman. Who would have thought? Well, he had not. He had never thought this possible. Being in love. Being loved. By Mr Smart and Charismatic. Mr Misanthropic. Mr Sexy.

Feeling that grin pulling at his lips again, Sherlock emptied his cup and cuddled up in his armchair. He still felt a bit sleepy. In a nice way. The giggles had stopped, thank God. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to doze off, wondering what Mycroft was doing right now – probably yelling at someone for being stupid. He imagined Mycroft's light-blue eyes go icy cold – and then how this ice would melt when his brother looked at him.

Wow. He really was a lucky man.

*****

When the doorbell rang, he was awoken from a proper slumber. He blinked against the light and heard the doorbell once more. There was not a sound from Mrs Hudson’s flat. Probably she had gone buying groceries. Or was with her paramour…

“Yes, coming,” he mumbled when the doorbell rang for the third time. A client. Good. A way to pass the time. With a hopefully interesting case.

The woman who entered the flat was looking thin and gaunt. He could barely see her features though as her greasy, dirty-blonde hair was hiding her forehead down to her eyebrows, and she had put up her coat collar and was wearing a thick scarf that was covering her chin – her clothing almost looked like a parody of his. He still thought she looked familiar.

She had not said a word except from a mumbled ‘hi’ when she had hastened into the corridor, her eyes were directed at floor. She couldn’t be old – perhaps in her early thirties but her back was bent. He recognised her when he had sat down in his chair and she finally looked up. She had changed a lot, and not to the better with her ghostly pale complexion and the dark shadows beneath her eyes, but with his eidetic memory, he knew it was her.

“You? What do you want?” For a moment he considered that he was still asleep and dreaming. “You have the nerve to show up here?” The last time he had seen her, she had thrown his own words from some time before into his face. _‘You repel me.’_

This was the woman, the journalist who had condemned him. Who had fallen for Moriarty’s ‘Richard Brook’ ruse. Had turned him, Sherlock, into a criminal. Yes, he and Mycroft had seen this happening and used it for their purposes but it still irked him.

His name had been cleared of all this bullshit right before he had returned to England in triumph. Big brother had taken care of that thoroughly. Everybody knew that Moriarty had been a crime lord, not a misunderstood actor.

He had never thought about Kitty Riley again. What had this idiotic story done to her career? If he’d had to guess, he would have said ‘nothing good’ in the long run.

She smiled at him now but it looked like an ugly sneer. “I’m surprised you remember me. Nobody else does. You’re the hero who beat Moriarty. I’m the stupid bitch who believed his lies.”

It wasn’t quite like this. At least as far as he was concerned. She made it sound as if dealing with Moriarty had been like a day at the beach. In fact, he had paid for his war against Jim’s network quite a bit – his back looked awful thanks to the whipping in Serbia. John had obviously never truly forgiven him for the way Sherlock had let him grieve – and let him watch jumping. Eurus had taken over Moriarty’s task and had almost succeeded at destroying him. But this was a story the press had never learned about. Mycroft had kept the lid on it. The public didn’t know about Eurus’ existence or her crimes, let alone her connection with Moriarty. He involuntarily grinned when he thought that this story would have really been a big thing.

“Yes. You’re laughing at me. Everybody does.” Her tone was flat but he could see the fury in her eyes.

“Leave,” Sherlock said. “I have no idea why you’ve come here but I doubt it’s for a case.” He was surprised about how much he still despised her. She had even offered to be his beard for God’s sake.

“I heard John Watson isn’t your friend anymore,” she said as if he hadn’t said anything. “Seems he hates you now.” Her tone was gleeful and her red-rimmed eyes full of… hatred?

“What’s it to you?” he shot back. This was ridiculous. A pointless conversation with someone he couldn’t have cared less about.

“I lost everything. I was on my way up. I got a great job after your ‘death’. And then you had to come back and destroy everything.”

Finally, and embarrassingly late, Sherlock realised that she was crazy. She was fucked up. Something had happened only recently. _Of course_ she had been working for a big newspaper after her exciting, exclusive Richard-Brook-story. It had sold well. She had been fired when Sherlock had returned, proving her story to be what it had always been – laughable. She had been fooled like the biggest moron in Britain. But that had been years ago. In the meantime, she had certainly worked for less important companies. Until now. She had lost her job and if he deduced her correctly, also her partner. And she was blaming him for it, God knew why.

Apparently he was guilty of basically everything these days. Mary’s death, Eurus’ loneliness, Molly’s humiliation even though she had all but asked for it by forcing him to confess a love Molly knew he did not feel. What John had not so long ago complained about was even truer for him – why was everything always his fault?

He had enough.

He got up and grabbed her arm. “Go now. Write a book about me if you like, tear me to shreds in it, I don’t care. Now –…”

The pain was sharp. Unexpected. Not even overwhelming. A buzz. He looked down his torso and saw the small knife sticking in his stomach. He tumbled. Hot blood started to trickle out of the wound when she pulled the weapon out and let it fall onto the carpet.

“Fuck you,” Kitty said, her voice completely toneless, and then she was gone, and Sherlock collapsed on the floor, reaching for his phone, thinking, _‘this can’t be happening.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffie. As you know, I would never do any serious harm to any of the boys!


	10. Chapter 10

“Everything okay?”

Sherlock gave his brother a good-natured eye-roll. “Not an invalid, brother mine. It wasn’t much more than a scratch.” A ‘scratch’ that had kept him at Bart’s for a couple of days though. The small blade had missed all inner organs but the blood loss had been quite heavy.

He had called Mycroft after going down, knowing his brother would immediately take care of everything, and then he had waited, his brain going all fuzzy and dizzy. Mycroft had called an ambulance, as well as Mrs Hudson. She had hurried upstairs and he had greeted her with a wry grin, lying in a growing puddle of blood. She had screeched and held him and tried to stop the bleeding until the medics had put him onto a stretcher. Mycroft had already been at the hospital when they had arrived, pressing his hand while he had been brought in. And Kitty had been arrested not long after.

“I’ve had most of your belongings already moved here,” Mycroft explained to him while they were slowly walking towards his living room.

Sherlock nodded, trying not to feel too solemn. He would not return to Baker Street. He could have but it wouldn’t have made sense as it wouldn’t have been for very long.

Mrs Hudson had visited him, looking fragile and shaken. _‘I can’t do this anymore, Sherlock,_ ’ she had whispered _. ‘I’m going to sell my house, and move in with my… friend. He owns two houses, here in London and in Sussex.’_

Sherlock had understood and didn’t begrudge her for this decision. It was asked a bit too much from a woman in her sunset years to keep up with the shit that had been following him around ever since he had started messing with Moriarty – practically on the day he had moved into 221B. Explosions, fights, his bored shootings of the wall, the shouting of all sorts and the heads in the fridge and on top finding her tenant in a condition that had probably almost caused her a heart attack. And Sherlock was well aware that Kitty could have harmed her too had she taken the knife with her on her way out and stumbled into his landlady. He would have never forgiven himself for that. In fact, Mrs Hudson must have entered the house with her groceries only a minute after the insane journalist had left it.

Molly had dropped by to check on him. An awkward conversation had occurred until Sherlock had pretended to be too tired to go on with talking about basically nothing apart from his injury as everything else had been a touchy subject. He doubted that he would see her again, at least outside of a professional capacity.

Lestrade had visited him, too, looking properly shaken by the attack. _‘You don't even work on dangerous cases anymore and look what that brought you,’_ he had tried to joke, but he had not fooled Sherlock. His face had looked actually crumpled, his eyes weary. This man did care about him, and Sherlock had felt bad for letting him down. He had suggested looking at murder cases from a distance like he had planned for a while now – working with crime scene photos, witness statements, videos, evidence. Everything that did not put him into the line of fire.

Because he could not do that anymore, either. Not only to himself but also to Mycroft. He would never forget Mycroft's pale and gaunt look when his face had appeared in the door of the ambulance. He had been worried and shaken to the core, and that was not a sight Sherlock was keen on ever laying eyes on again. So the danger finally had to stop. And not only concerning the cases for the Met. He would have to work on private cases alone as John was gone for good. And no matter how good he had thought he was at deducing people – he had totally missed the mark with Kitty. He had not seen this coming, had not even considered that she could be armed and on a vengeance. Not even when he had realised how crazy she was. He had lost his instincts and he would never trust himself with clients any more. And he didn’t want to be a paranoid fuck who searched in an old woman’s knickers for a shotgun…

He would not grow old and grey being a detective that was wearing his hat and smoking his pipe after all. He just couldn’t go on like this anymore.

So he had made an agreement with Mycroft, too – after Lestrade had accepted his offer gratefully and with a big grin. He had asked big bro if he could move in with him permanently – right now he needed someone to help him with mundane chores, and walking stairs was a bit painful, too. But since he would lose his flat (as he didn’t want to deal with a possible new landlord and nobody but Mrs Hudson, the saint, would have kept up with him anyway) and Mycroft had so much space and they were together now and yes, he knew that their relationship was still in its early days and they had not even made real love and –…

Mycroft had shut him up with a shake of his head. _‘Sherlock. Do you really have any doubt that I would love to have you here with me? I would be honoured if you called my house your home.’_

Sherlock had felt touched and then, lying on his hospital bed, he had asked _, ‘But what will I do? Except for working with the Yarders if there is something I can solve from afar?’_ Of course there were about a million books in this house. He still had his violin. Perhaps he could even have a dog or a cat or both. But would that be enough?

‘ _Well,’_ Mycroft had said, _‘you could work for me, too.’_

Sherlock had snorted and asked if Mycroft wanted him to be his kept man for real and to pay for his services – without even knowing that he was worth it as they had not had the chance to explore their sexuality together any further so far. Mycroft had grinned and said that he wanted Sherlock to work for the government. Legally and officially but under the radar. The man for special cases. A counsellor. A fixer.

For a moment, Sherlock had been speechless. If Mycroft had suggested for him to work for Queen and country just a few weeks ago, Sherlock would have laughed at him. But now… He would be some sort of spy? Working on cases with big brother? Scheming with him? Without having to spend much time at a boring office? Yes. Sherlock was game. How times had changed...

And now that he was carefully lying down on the couch and watching Mycroft grab a blanket to put it over him, a steaming cup of tea waiting on the table, he felt strangely… happy. He had lost everything else in a way. His flat, his best friend, his goddaughter, his burning for the thrill of the chase. But still he was happy. Which was entirely Mycroft’s fault.

Sherlock smiled when Mycroft gingerly sat down next to him, curling an arm around his neck, nuzzling his face against Sherlock's temple and actually sniffing him (and Sherlock was glad he had been allowed to shower and wash his hair before leaving the hospital).

“Don't start anything I won’t be able to keep up with in my condition,” he drawled, knowing very well that Mycroft was just basically reassuring himself that he was okay and really here – and here to stay.

“Don’t be smart,” was the predictable response. “I’m merely cuddling with you.”

“Oh. That’s what it is.” Sherlock reached out to link his fingers with Mycroft's. “Big bro’s a cuddler,” he said in a sing-sang voice.

“He is,” Mycroft confirmed, completely unapologetically, and Sherlock felt as if his heart was overflowing with warmth. With love, actually.

And he realised that they had not said it yet. That Molly was still the only person he had ever said these words to, and he had not meant them. “I love you, Mycroft.” Well. That had been rather easy. Probably because he did mean it this time.

Mycroft actually gasped. Then his grip around Sherlock's hand strengthened just a bit. “I love you, too, little brother. And I think we’ll be a great team.”

“In the bedroom?” Sherlock joked, and he grinned when Mycroft ruffled his hair.

“In- and outside of it,” confirmed the older man. “Try it out. If you don't like it, we’ll find something else for you to do. You’re still young and a man of many talents.”

“If you, the smart one, say so,” Sherlock teased him, and he smiled when Mycroft bent down to kiss him. Or rather peck him on the lips. “No need to be so careful,” Sherlock complained when Mycroft pulled back way too soon.

“You’re injured, little brother.”

“Not badly. And it was the last time.” He simply wouldn’t allow anyone to attack him again. Ever. He finally sipped at his tea. It was good and strong, just as he liked it.

Mycroft sighed. “I really hope so. Sherlock… I have a confession to make.”

Sherlock stared at him. “What is it? You have some secret children? You’re bankrupt? You killed that annoying lady and will go to prison? What?”

Mycroft smiled. “Nothing of the kind. I do… own another house. Just out of Gillingham. Kent.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “In which lives who?”

“Oh, nobody. Well, there is a woman who looks after it when I can’t go there for a few weeks, making sure it’s not covered in dust. Otherwise… it’s a place where I go when I need some space. It’s a very big property. Lots of green. A garden. Peace, you know? No hectic, no people.”

“That sounds nice.” Sherlock, feeling a lot more relaxed than just a moment ago, wondered how he could have missed this. Well, big brother was good at keeping secrets… But in contrast to the Eurus-secret, not even mentioning the Eurus-Moriarty-connection, this secret was a pleasant one. “So you’re saying we should go there together? If your job allows it?”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes. It’s only a one-hour-drive. We could go there at the weekends. And… If you need some space… I mean, we’re getting along so well now but I might wreck your last nerve sometimes when we spend so much more time together.”

Of course Mycroft would still be at work all day so they would only meet in the evenings and at the weekends if they didn’t work together on something. But Sherlock knew his brother had a point. And… “I guess you rather fear I could wreck _your_ last nerve. Playing the violin. Maybe doing some experiments.” Mycroft was not used to living with anybody after all.

“Well, I would appreciate it if you didn’t burn the house down.” Mycroft smiled and stroked his face. “I’m fine with all that. But I guess… after these difficult last years, you could have use for some privacy. Silence. And… Of course we’ll still have to be careful in public but with you wearing a cap or something and foregoing your Belstaff, we could spend some time outside over there. Not exactly holding hands or stuff but…”

Yes. No paparazzi. Nobody would be expecting him there. Sherlock could see himself sitting in a garden, a book on his knees, listening to the quiet noise of insects instead of cars. “I’d love that. But…”

“Yes?” Mycroft tilted his head.

“I’ll be alone pretty much I suppose. If you don’t have a case for me.”

“I guess so. But…”

“Can we have a dog? A cat? Both?” Sherlock shook his head. “A dog would be better, if we spend more time at your other place. Cats don’t like to move and it could get lost. Well, I’m being presumptuous. I don't even know what you think about having pets.” There was so much he still didn’t know about his brother. It was time to work on that.

Mycroft smiled. “I was always in awe at your fond memories of… well, Redbeard.”

The dog that hadn’t even existed… The thought made Sherlock grimace. “I would appreciate a real dog this time. A nice, well-behaved one, from a shelter or a rescue organisation.” One he could take everywhere. Something else to cuddle with.

Mycroft put his hand onto his cheek. “You will get your dog. It’s a bit of a cliché, isn’t it? Two gay men and a dog?”

Sherlock chuckled and reached out to rub his brother’s neck. “A gay little family, yes.” He saw a flicker of pain on Mycroft's face, just for a second, and he knew that he was thinking of the moment in which Sherlock had called John ‘family’. It had been a nasty thing to say and Mycroft had looked hurt, and if Sherlock could have erased this memory from his brother’s mind, he would have immediately done it.

But their new and real family member would be so much nicer. Mycroft would see. “Thank you, Mycroft. For everything. Giving me a home, a family, a job, even a dog. Damn…” Big bro was really taking care of him very well. As he had always done. Without so much as a ‘thank you’…

“You’re not a burden to me, and you never have been,” Mycroft said immediately, deducing where his thoughts were going. “I love having you with me, I love being your partner and I have always valued your opinion on certain problems.”

Yeah. And Sherlock had always thrown it into his face. Had even betrayed the country during the case of Irene Adler. He had so much to make up for. But he had a lifetime ahead to do that. To make his brother see that he could be trusted. That he deserved his affection. That he loved him…

“I wish we could go to bed,” he mumbled. He died for showing Mycroft what he meant to him. For feeling him, touching him…

Mycroft kissed his nose. “Well, any further explorations will have to be postponed for a while longer.” He carefully placed himself behind Sherlock so they were lying next to each other, the blanket still mostly wrapped around Sherlock alone. “But we can cuddle a bit.”

Sherlock smiled. “Cuddling’s fine.”

Everything would be fine eventually. He had full faith in his brother. There would be plenty of cuddling. Sex. Arguments, too, probably. Making up for them. He saw himself working in the garden of this secret house, a lovely dog (or two?) jumping around him. Saw Mycroft arriving from a long day in London, his arms opened up for him.

For the first time in… forever, he had faith in the future. A future with the best man anyone could wish for. No Iceman. No Antarctica. No British Government. Just Mycroft.

The End

  
  



End file.
